


The Untouchable

by TreacleTeacups



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Altered Mental States, Consensual/Of Age (17 years old) Slash, Dark Comedy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Distressing imagery, Enjoy!, Gaslighting, Happily Ever After (in a hans christian andersen sort of way), I guess while I'm at it I should add, Is this serious crack? I really don't know, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Overpowered Harry Potter, Rewrite, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Shameless AU, Slytherin Harry Potter, a long walk down a dark road, all the fun tags :D, complicit inaction, imagine dramatic finger quotes next to "sane", mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-04-25 04:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleTeacups/pseuds/TreacleTeacups
Summary: When he's little, Harry discovers something very special: he can make his wishes come true.Literally.Cue the chaos.A retelling of Harry's journey through Hogwarts. Tone changes from childish to mature as Harry ages. Rated M for a lack of moral conscience, the occasional murder, and a graphic dark theme here and there (because why not?). Happily Ever After, Voldemort style.





	1. Prologue: The Disappearing Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: child neglect, dark themes, mental illness/altered mental state, an instance of creature/animal violence, and slash - very eventually and consensual/of age. By 'of age', I am referring to 17 years old as the Wizarding Maturity Standard.

When Harry was six years old (and a half), he discovered something fascinating. If he wished Very Hard, sometimes so hard he thought he would pass out, he could make Strange Things happen.

Sometimes these Strange Things were very simple. Uncle Vernon wanted the remote for the telly and insisted Harry had hidden the remote. Harry wished Very Hard that Uncle Vernon could find the remote and, as Uncle Vernon approached Harry, the remote was crushed under the large man’s foot. Now, Harry knew that Dudley had hidden the remote. And Harry knew for certain that the telly remote was not on the floor a few moments ago. Uncle Vernon seemed to know this too, or perhaps a version of this, and he was very upset.

Uncle Vernon refused to touch the remote and went out quickly to buy a new one.

Sometimes these Strange Things were awfully complicated. Dudley liked to chase Harry around, which wouldn’t normally be a problem as Harry was very fast. But Dudley had many friends and sometimes these friends were faster than Harry. If Harry wished Very Hard (so hard that his face would turn red and his cheeks would heat up), he could escape Cousin Dudley and his gang of friends. Sometimes Harry would end up on the roof. Sometimes Harry would be in a tree. It did not work all of the time (which was partially why it was in the awfully complicated category), but it worked often enough to upset Dudley and complain to Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia did not like Strange Things.

Harry was sentenced to stay in his cupboard under the stairs for disappearing into a tree. When Uncle Vernon came home, he was very upset too. Uncle Vernon very much did not like Strange Things. Harry did not like to say the word often, as it was a word Dudley said a lot and made everyone upset, but it was true to say that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia _hated_ Strange Things.

As he sat in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry realised that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon must hate him, too. Because Harry, himself, was a Strange Thing.

Now, Harry knew that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did not need to keep him in the house. He had heard many times from Uncle Vernon that the man was ‘ _this close’_ to placing him in an orphanage. Aunt Petunia would then talk loudly (in front of his cupboard) about ‘how awful and cruel’ orphanages were and perhaps they would give Harry another chance.

Harry would listen to Aunt Petunia whine and Uncle Vernon grumble and he would tremble, hiding amongst the spiders in the cupboard under the stairs. Orphanages sounded very evil to Harry. Aunt Petunia almost seemed pleased about the idea sometimes, which frightened Harry greatly. Aunt Petunia was very rarely pleased about anything other than the mean things the neighbours said about one another.

This time, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had a roaring fight. Uncle Vernon said that disappearing into a tree was ‘the last straw’. Aunt Petunia whispered quietly, scared, about a ‘letter’ and was very upset that they could not do more. Harry did not know what that meant, but he did know that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were going to send him away. Harry did not know if that meant to an Orphanage, but the thought frightened him so deeply that he wished Very Hard that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would forget that Harry existed.

It did not seem to work, which did not surprise Harry as most Strange Things only came true in a physical sort of way. If Harry wished he could disappear, this oft meant he would zip up into a high space away from his pursuers instead of truly disappearing. If Harry wished Aunt Petunia had never cut his hair, his hair would grow back instead of going back in time. Harry had experimented with many Strange Things and often the easiest answer would come true, even if Harry did not know what the easiest answer was at the time.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon did not forget that Harry existed, for they continued arguing late into the night about whether to send him away or not. Little Harry continued wishing Very Hard and he fell asleep on his cot in the cupboard under the stairs, where he dreamt of becoming invisible.

* * *

When Harry awoke, it was very early in the morning, so early that the house was awash in blue from the very beginning of a sunrise. Aunt Petunia had forgotten to unlock the bolt on his door and Harry needed to go to the bathroom. Harry was stuck – he did not know if it was worse to go to the bathroom in the cupboard or unlocking the door from the inside. Harry realised that Aunt Petunia most likely just forgot, so he wished Very Hard that the door would unbolt and it did. The more Harry practiced, the better he got.

Harry put on his glasses and very quietly tiptoed into the bathroom and was very surprised by what he saw. Instead of black hair and green eyes, Harry saw a Very Boring boy staring back at him in the mirror. Harry looked at the boy curiously, tilting his head this way and that. The boy mimicked his actions and Harry jumped as he realised that the boy was _him_.

Harry was not sure what precisely was so boring about the boy in the mirror. Perhaps it was the fuzzy appearance of the boy, or the way his shoulders hunched. Or perhaps it was the way his large glasses reflected light and hid his eyes. Harry took off his glasses to see if his eyes had changed and jumped again in surprise as Harry once more became Harry. He experimented with his glasses, taking them on and off again many times. Like an illusion, Harry turned Very Boring with his glasses on and back to Regular Harry with his glasses off.

Harry knew that Regular Harry was very strange looking indeed. His teachers often commented on the colour of his eyes or tutted about the wildness of his hair. Sometimes they complained that he was very skinny, but a conversation with a grumpy Uncle Vernon often had them forgetting.

But with his glasses on, he became Boring Harry.

Harry found this Strange Thing to be fascinating. However, it was time to start the morning chores and Harry did not have much time before Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon stirred. He put his glasses back on and quickly used the bathroom.

Once Harry had washed the windows, swept the kitchen floor, started a load of laundry, and dusted the picture frames in the lounge, Harry sat at the kitchen table and waited for Aunt Petunia.

Harry was a little worried how Aunt Petunia would react. Aunt Petunia had only been speaking with Uncle Vernon yesterday about how tired she was of Strange Things.

When Aunt Petunia bustled into the kitchen, she stopped and stared at Harry for a moment. Harry felt himself sinking into the chair, very scared of her reaction, but then Aunt Petunia’s eyes seemed to glaze over and she continued on her way to the fridge.

Aunt Petunia pulled out eggs, bacon, bread and butter.

“Scrambled eggs for breakfast,” Aunt Petunia stated rudely. Harry couldn’t remember a time when Aunt Petunia said good morning or good night to Harry, as she did to Uncle Vernon and Cousin Dudley.

Harry nodded meekly, keeping himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, and began breakfast preparations.

Once breakfast was ready and keeping warm in the oven, Harry washed and dried the dishes. Uncle Vernon came in first, the large man tottering into the room with loud footsteps. He passed right by Harry without a second glance and sat at the table. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon began to discuss the day’s events, Uncle Vernon grumbling about his schedule and Aunt Petunia complaining about the new neighbour four doors down.

Cousin Dudley walked in next, barely fitting through the doorframe for he was so wide, and passed by Harry as well. Harry placed a glass of juice in front of Dudley, a coffee before Uncle Vernon, and a cup of tea with milk and sugar before Aunt Petunia.

No one spoke to him, nor did anyone even look at him. Harry would consider this a victory normally, but he was surprised no one had yet mentioned nor gotten upset by the newest Strange Thing.

Once breakfast was served, Uncle Vernon and Cousin Dudley’s plates towering with food, Harry retreated from the kitchen. He allowed himself a secret smile, lips twisting and eyes glittering as he awaited his teacher’s reaction as school.

* * *

As Harry had predicted (and hoped), no one noticed Boring Harry. In fact, it was becoming easier and easier to simply disappear. Cousin Dudley and his gang of mean friends forgot Harry existed and chased another little boy around the playground. This little boy, though, had a Very Serious mum and dad and they complained to the headmaster. Dudley had to stop chasing children around the playground, even though Uncle Vernon complained at home that the little boy and his parents were sissies.

The teacher still called Harry’s name in the morning roll, but she never asked him questions anymore or complained about his bad handwriting. During one hair-raising experiment, Harry ate an orange in the library right next to the sign declaring in block letters: _NO FOOD OR DRINKS._ The librarian looked at him for a moment with her mouth open, as if to speak, but then she turned to a gaggle of teenagers giggling in the children’s section and told them off for making such a racket.

Harry found that if he kept his mouth closed and did not call attention to himself, he was very easy to forget. During one fieldtrip, Harry was forgotten at the zoo. He waited for a while, but no one seemed to remember to come pick him up and he very narrowly missed being locked in the zoo as it was being closed. Harry was a little annoyed by that, as he had to walk home, but after a few hours of walking and wishing Very Hard that he was going in the right direction, he arrived at Number Four Privet Drive. It was very late, perhaps nearing midnight, but none of the lights at home were on and the car was in the driveway. Harry wished that the door would unlock and after hearing the _click_ of the bolt moving, Harry slipped through the door.

He could count three loud snores and realised that no one remembered Boring Harry.

Instead of feeling upset or sad, Harry felt a large surge of happiness swell in his chest. If Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon couldn’t remember that Harry lived in their house, or even that he was missing, they wouldn’t be able to send him away.

* * *

As the years passed by, Harry became very good at being Not Seen. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon forgot to speak to him often and as long as he kept the chores up and plates of food on the tables during meals, Harry could snack as he wished and come and go as necessary.

Harry was proud to note that he was the most independent child in school. Most children needed to ask their mum and dad’s permission to do everything. Harry didn’t need to ask anyone anything – ever – at all. Harry didn’t get toys or books, but when Dudley broke something and tossed it away, Harry could pull it into his cupboard as a dog might sneak a stolen sock into their kennel and the household would forget that it ever existed.

Sometimes Harry wished that people would recognise or remember him. He was very careful to not wish this Very Hard, as Harry did not want to lose the gift of his invisibility. Harry dreamt sometimes that he had a happy family, as most children at school did, who would take him to the beach, or to the park, or give him gifts on his birthday and Easter and Christmas and sometimes even ‘just because’. Harry dreamt of having a mum, a dad, and maybe even a little sister or brother.

But Harry was resigned to the fact that his was not going to happen as it surely would have by now. Harry was ten years old (and nearing eleven rapidly) when Harry decided that he would make a family of his own. One day, he would find someone special (though nothing like Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon) and would have a large, loving family. Harry promised himself that his family would have lots of hugs and kisses and no one would ever need to wish to become invisible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was an idea that kept bothering me until I finally wrote it down. It's a bit dark and fluffy and flippant and will have at least 13 chapters (maybe more if inspiration strikes). The tone will eventually change from childish to mature as Harry ages. Please note that this isn't Beta read, so all mistakes are my own. I hope you like :)


	2. Through the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry receives a letter, goblins are not to be trifled with, and Harry makes a friend.

It was a normal, warm summer’s morning when the universe decided to shift under Boring Harry’s feet. Harry had just finished carefully putting away the washed breakfast dishes when he heard mail come through the front door flap.

As per the daily routine, Harry dodged around his large relatives (Cousin Dudley bigger than ever) and collected the mail. As he returned to the kitchen, he sorted through the coupons and bills and was amazed to find that a large letter in strange paper addressed to him. Harry stood stock-still in the hallway for a brief moment, dull green eyes blinking owlishly behind his coke-bottle glasses. Harry didn’t know what to do, so he completed the morning routine.

Harry tucked the letter into his baggy jeans pocket (barely just so, as it was so large) and dropped the rest of the mail off on the kitchen table by Uncle Vernon’s chubby elbow. Uncle Vernon did not seem to notice him, but he did notice the letters and began to flick through the bills angrily.

Cousin Dudley stared stupidly at the television, a bit of egg stuck to his chin. Aunt Petunia chattered on the telephone to the neighbour across the street, complaining about Mr. Bell’s lawn, the long spiral telephone cord coiled at her feet like a garden snake. Once Harry was satisfied that he was being completely ignored and was free for the rest of the day (after all, it was Saturday and he only had the gardening chores left to do), he snuck off to his cupboard.

Once the door was firmly shut, Harry pulled on a string from the rafters. A soft naked bulb flickered to life and Harry stared at the heavy letter with the strange embossed green lettering.

 _‘Mr. H Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,’_ it read. Harry mouthed the words slowly, confused. He didn’t know anyone who would send him a letter. In fact, Harry didn’t know anyone who knew he lived under the stairs, other than Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Cousin Dudley and perhaps Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge was the only conceivable candidate to send him such a letter, but the woman detested Harry and pretended he was invisible even long before Harry became Not Seen. Perhaps it was advertising mail, which made Harry feel uncomfortable.

It took Harry a few moments of deep breathing before he convinced himself to open the daunting letter. After peeling back the envelope lip (and ogling at the large wax seal), Harry was amazed to see several letters tucked in the packet. He read the contents with slowly widening eyes. It took a couple slow readings before Harry sat back on his cot in the cupboard under the stairs and he gazed unseeingly at the cobwebbed ceiling.

Though it was shocking and a little unbelievable, the letters made sense despite their strange words and confusing terms. Harry knew well from a very early age that he was Special (though if this was bad or good, he did not know), so discovering that he was a wizard was not that surprising. In fact, Harry wouldn’t be alarmed if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon knew too, seeing how much they hated Strange Things. It made a peculiar amount of backwards sense, the kind of logic of which Harry felt most comfortable.

Along with the letter was a map to ‘Diagon Alley’ via ‘Muggle London’. Harry did not know what that meant nor how to return a confirmation of his intent to attend Hogwarts. Harry knew that a few years ago, he would have been too frightened and too worried to believe this letter. In fact, had he believed the letter, he would have been too scared to agree. But since becoming invisible, Harry discovered that it was very easy to do things when no one was watching.

The letter let him know that a professor would be along soon to answer his questions and take him to Diagon Alley for his school shopping, but Harry knew that his relatives did not like strange people coming to and from the house; it was the exact kind of behaviour that made Mr. Bell two doors down the neighbourhood pariah. He imagined that his Aunt and Uncle would be especially unhappy if an invited witch or wizard knocked on their door. So, Harry steeled his nerves, tucked the letter firmly into his pocket, and decided it was time to go exploring.

* * *

Catching the Sunday train from Surrey to London the following day was quite simple; so simple, in fact, that Harry wondered why he had not done it before. People looking for a day off in the city bustled around little Harry and no one paid him any mind. He did have one close call, in which someone almost sat on him. Sometimes being Not Seen was just as much effort as not.

Harry had heard many times that children were not to go off wandering by themselves. There were bad people in the world and their parents would miss them awfully. But Harry did not have parents and being Not Seen provided him a certain layer of protection, so Harry slunk down the busy, loud streets of London without receiving a second look.

London was very overwhelming, especially for someone who spent most of their life cleaning a house, sitting in class, and sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. Harry carefully read the map, eyes widening as he realised that the map moved with him, a little shape on the parchment denoting himself as the centre and a red line showing him the way. If Harry needed proof that the letter was not a hoax but rather a Strange Thing, this would definitely be it.

Harry finally came upon a large pub door with a dirty, stinky stoop and a nearly completely faded sign declaring _The Leaky Cauldron_. As people walked by, eyes jumping from one window pane to the other, Harry realised that they were unable to notice the door. Harry had become very accustomed to that look; these people did not see the pub door as they did not see Harry. This seemed an appropriate marker of a Strange Thing, so Harry quickly ducked across the sidewalk and into the pub door.

Once he slipped inside, the loudness of London was immediately cut off. He did not spend too much time looking around the shadowy pub, for he now was in the presence of witches and wizards and Harry feared that his ability to be Not Seen would not work. Thankfully, no one looked up nor paid him any mind, so Harry was free to follow the little red line to the backdoor of the pub.

Harry was surprised to see that the map ended in a little courtyard outside of the pub. The area was walled off with towering bricks and only a few overflowing rubbish bins occupied the space. A nasty feeling grew in Harry’s gut as he began to think that perhaps he was being tricked. After all, what did Harry know of the ways of witches and wizards? Harry walked over to a smelly metal bin and sat down, wondering what to do next.

Just as Harry settled on the cobblestone, a tall, skinny man bustled out of the pub door and into the small courtyard. Harry felt himself bristle and he focused very much on being Not Seen. It seemed unnecessary, as the man paid him no mind and pulled out a large, knobbly stick and began tapping on the brick wall.

Harry jumped in surprise as the bricks responded to the taps with fervour, the knobbly stick causing a ripple in the stonework like a rock skipped over a lake. The grimy brick wall pulled away quickly, each brick slotting into another, and revealed a large entranceway. The man disappeared through the shifted brick wall (not looking nearly as impressed as Harry felt) and Harry scrambled to follow him. Just as Harry squeezed through, the bricks settled into the original wall and he looked behind himself in surprise as his only exit was sealed shut. Harry frowned but shrugged, assuming that there must be another way to leave, and turned around.

Harry was amazed by the sight before him. Diagon Alley appeared to be an enchanted village from one of his fairy-tale stories (the kind hidden under his cot from Aunt Petunia’s prying eyes), booming with activity and noise. Hundreds of witches and wizards, for that was what they must be, passed by with their shopping, sometimes their bags floating next to them. There were many witch’s hats bobbing around and occasionally an odd-looking cat would walk next to their owner and look at Harry with surprising clarity and suspicion. Harry ducked away from those cats, worried that their owners would be able to see him as well as the felines had.

It appeared that Harry was as much Not Seen here as he was in regular London, even though these witches and wizards must be able to see the entrance to _The Leaky Cauldron_. Harry wished he knew the answer to why, but perhaps it was something he would learn at school.

Harry quickly walked through the door of the nearest shopfront, doing his best to not be trampled. Harry knew he was on a time constraint to catch the last train home, but he did have a few hours to explore. This store appeared to be a furniture shop, full of ends and bobs that one may need around the house. There were fancy bookshelves proudly displaying expensive-looking tomes, mirrors that chatted at the occasional passer-by, and tea service trolleys that poured tea and cream upon request.

Harry looked at a few price tags and was confused by the strange jargon. What a galleon or sickle was, he didn’t know. Harry began to despair a little, as he had no money besides the twenty-pound note he had nicked from Uncle Vernon’s wallet. While Harry knew that twenty pounds would not get him far with his school shopping, he was hoping that it would secure him at least the essentials. Besides, he had notebooks and pens from school and he was hoping to save his monies for the more peculiar items on his shopping list.

Harry approached the nearest shop assistant and waited patiently until she was no longer fluttering after another customer. Harry wished for a moment to be a little less Unseen and the shop assistant blinked at him in surprise, as if not noticing him until now.

“Hello there, lad,” the portly woman welcomed politely. “Are you here to pick up some shopping for your mother?”

Harry smiled at her kindly and shook his head. “I’m doing some school shopping, but I’m afraid I don’t know what a galleon is. Would you be able to explain what that means, please?” Harry asked, doing his best to be polite and put his best foot forward.

“Oh, my!” The shop assistant announced. “Muggle-born, are we, dear?” She asked rather pityingly.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered, confused by the term and eyebrows drawing together.

“Oh! Of course,” the shop assistant sighed, as if she wasn’t terribly interested in explaining. “Muggles are non-magical folk, you see. You’ll need to convert your muggle money into wizarding money, dear. If my memory serves me correctly, a galleon converts into about five pounds. There’s seventeen sickles per galleon, and twenty-nine knuts per sickle.”

Harry looked at her with wide eyes, realising that his single twenty-pound note was only (Harry thought hard for a moment) _four galleons_. Some of the furniture and decorations were several _tens_ of galleons. He thought hard for another moment.

“How many knuts per galleon?” Harry asked, warily.

“Four hundred and ninety-three,” the woman answered warmly, smiling at him in a kind but pitying way once more. “Though there’s not much to be purchased with knuts, you see. Mostly lollies and the like. Don’t go filling up on candies, though, not before you finish your shopping!” She warned in a matronly tone.

Harry nodded, dazed, and looked around helplessly. “I don’t have much,” Harry whispered, realising that his short-lived dream of attending Hogwarts was evaporating exponentially by the second.

“Perhaps Gringotts would be willing to offer your family a loan?” The woman offered, suddenly looking him up and down and a line of concern forming on her forehead at the sight of his ragged, too large clothes.

“Gringotts?” Harry asked, beginning to feel stupid for having to ask so many questions and realising that he would need to wrap this conversation up quickly before the assistant started looking for his parents. Most adults were obsessed with children having parents.

“Oh yes, dear! Our very own wizarding bank. It’s just down the path, love. You won’t be able to miss it!” The woman announced happily, appearing to be pleased that she had aided the boy. She then fluttered off to attend to paying customers and Harry was forgotten once more.

Harry focused hard on being Not Seen again, slipping through the front door unnoticed. Though he probably could get away with nicking a few things, Harry thought it terribly unfair to steal, especially when he had other options such as asking for a loan. Cousin Dudley loved stealing and upon recalling the despair on the faces of Dudley’s victims, Harry firmly told himself that stealing would certainly not be an option.

Harry turned a corner on the cobblestone alley and stopped, jaw dropping in awe. The shop assistant was correct – Harry couldn’t possibly have missed Gringotts Bank. It was an enormous, towering stone building that cast a looming shadow on its neighbours. White steps led up to a set of bronze doors, guarded by small, peculiar creatures in rich uniforms.

Upon passing the bizarre creatures, who did not even give him a second glance, Harry approached another set of doors and read the strange engraving upon the entranceway.

 

> _“Enter, stranger, but take heed_
> 
> _Of what awaits the sins of greed_
> 
> _For those who take, but do not earn_
> 
> _Must pay most dearly in their turn._
> 
> _So if you seek beneath our floors_
> 
> _A treasure that was never yours,_
> 
> _Thief, you have been warned, beware_
> 
> _Of finding more than treasure there.”_

Harry read the warning on the arch of the entrance and shuddered, recalling that he had mulled over stealing not moments ago. The strange poem sounded like a curse and Harry hoped dearly he hadn’t just been jinxed. Just as Harry passed the silver entrance into a much grander hall resembling a vintage muggle bank, wondering if he would know if he had been cursed or not, a hand shot out and jerked Harry to the side.

“What have we here?” A growling, horrible voice purred in his ear.

Harry gasped in horror, turning to his assailant. A bizarre, leathery beast like the creatures he had passed at the front entrance held the cuff of his shirt in a clawed grasp, reptilian eyes glinting with malicious glee. The creature was not that much smaller than himself, perhaps a few centimetres, but that did not diminish its imposing and intimidating presence.

“I-I,” Harry stuttered, unsure what to say to appease the strange beast and mind going blank with terror.

“Think you can walk into our bank and steal, you brat?” The creature growled once more, eyes glittering with mad fury. “I’ll skin you alive right here!”

“N-no!” Harry burst out, embarrassed to realise that his eyes were welling with tears and cheeks flushing. “I just wanted to ask for a loan!”

The creature eyed Harry unsympathetically, racking its eyes over his ragged appearance. It then began to pull him through a side door, away from the hustle and bustle of the grand entrance hall. No one seemed to take notice and Harry realised that this was one of those times that he would very much prefer to _not_ be Not Seen.

Through a few wooden doors later and into a large cavernous room, Harry was deposited unceremoniously in a splintering wooden chair. The creature snapped its fingers and Harry found his wrists bound with leather restraints to the arms of the chair. He dared not to struggle, not when the vicious creature walked over to a table and picked up a large, twisted gleaming knife that shone unnaturally in the poorly lit room.

“You’ll tell me the truth, child,” the creature warned.

Harry began to shake and realised his only way to get out of the situation was to wish Very Hard. He closed his eyes, ignoring the hot tears splashing down his cheek, and wished Very Hard to escape. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. That is, until a door opened on the side of the chamber and another odd creature walked in.

“What are you doing?” The new creature barked loudly. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This little monster walked in with a Notice-Me-Not variety on him. Trying to steal,” the first creature growled, voice harsher than gravel.

The new creature scoffed. “Notice-Me-Not. As if that would work,” it intoned, disgusted.

“I wasn’t trying to steal, I swear,” Harry hiccupped, desperate to be believed. Wishing for a way to convince these creatures that _he was not lying._

Both creatures turned to him and looked at Harry through suspicious, narrowed eyes.

“Then you won’t mind being questioned, child?” The first creature asked in a tone that suggested an answer was not required.

Harry looked at it in surprise and opened his mouth to speak. As he did so, a vial of clear liquid flung across the room and its contents was dumped in his mouth. Harry spluttered and gagged as he swallowed a small amount of the liquid, which was as tasteless and clear as water but had a more thick, syrupy consistency.

“What is your name?” The first creature asked coldly.

“Harry James Potter,” Harry answered. He blinked in shock, unsure why he had answered so quickly. In fact, Harry used his full name so rarely that it was only on good days that he could recall the whole moniker.

Both creatures blanched in surprise. The second creature walked forward and looked Harry over a little more seriously than before. It seemed very interested in his glasses and pulled them off quickly to inspect them despite Harry’s attempts to jerk away. Both creatures then watched Boring Harry change into Normal Harry, as Harry knew he would, and he looked down in shame at being caught doing a Strange Thing.

“Uncommon charm,” the second creature commented darkly as it inspected his glasses. “Crudely drawn runes on the frames. Perhaps by accidental magic. Easy to decipher,” it stated, looking at the first creature.

“What does it do?” The first creature asked, excited.

“Makes me invisible,” Harry answered, the words pulled from his mouth against his will. Both creatures then turned to him again, frowns on their faces, and Harry realised that the question was not directed at him. “I think,” he continued, a little unsurely.

“A strange concoction of notice-me-not, disillusionment, repellent, and… Boringness in the eyes of the beholder.” The second creature stated once more, looking a little stumped.

“Why do you have these glasses?” The first creature asked suspiciously.

“So my aunt and uncle can’t send me away. And because I can’t see very well without them,” Harry answered helplessly, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks at the admission.

“Neglect,” the second creature suddenly announced, expression turning dark. “But that is a matter for the wizards and their kind.”

“Are you not a wizard?” Harry asked, curious. It was the politest way he could think of to ask what type of creatures they were without being too forthright.

Both creatures looked at him with such distain in that moment that Harry wished he could fall through the floor.

“Of course not, you little brat,” the first creature snarked coldly. “We’re goblins.”

“Oh,” Harry stated, unsure what to do with the new information.

The second goblin then became to look irritated and bored. “What do you want?” It asked, clearly running out of patience.

“A loan, please. I need to go to Hogwarts. It’s a school that I was invited to attend –” Harry began fervently, glad that the questions had turned from personal to professional.

“We know perfectly well what Hogwarts is,” the first creature interrupted. “And you do not need a loan. At least not for now. You have your family’s estate.”

Harry looked at the creature in surprise. “Estate?” He asked, mystified.

“This child does not know who he is,” the second goblin suddenly laughed, expression astonished. “This child thinks he is a mudblood.”

“No,” the first goblin breathed disbelievingly. It then looked at Harry suspiciously and its invisible eyebrows rose. “What foolishness,” it crowed.

Harry listened to the goblins throw around synonyms regarding his intelligence, lips pursed in irritation. “So if I have money here, aren’t I a customer?” He asked suddenly, cutting off a jibe from the first goblin.

Both goblins turned to Harry, reptilian eyes pinning the boy with a dangerous stare. “Yes,” the first goblin hissed darkly, somehow conveying his ill intent with the single syllable. “And you’ll remain one.”

While Harry didn’t know much about customer service, threatening one’s customers didn’t seem very professional. But Harry didn’t feel like saying that to the angry little creature lest it use the knife still clutched in its clawed hand and he sighed, nodding.

* * *

Harry was mortified and completely flabbergasted at the sheer amount of _gold_ he owned. Galleons after galleons were stacked high up in his vault, a glittering sea of riches and wealth. After all, there was no conceivable way a boy who lived under the stairs was this rich. Harry had become immediately uneasy upon seeing the contents of the vault, even more ill than he felt zooming around in the rickety cart required to get to the vault, wondering if this was a trick.

The goblins told him it wasn’t. But they seemed like the type to lie.

Harry ended up taking exactly one hundred large galleon coins, and that was only with the pushy encouragement of the second goblin who informed Harry that his school supplies would cost _at least_ a hundred galleons. Harry hoped that, if it was a trick, he wouldn’t be punished too harshly for taking just a small purse’s worth out of the vast room of gleaming metals.

The goblins also informed Harry that no reply was necessary to attend Hogwarts, as his tuition fee had already been withdrawn from his account upon his arrival. Harry was able to request the goblins to send a letter on his behalf to Hogwarts informing them of his intent to attend as well as a very polite note to inform the school that a professor would not need to attend his house. This was done, however, for a very generous fee that had even little Harry’s eyes watering at the cost.

At last, a key was pressed into Harry’s hand as he was shoved out of the bank entrance and warned very firmly (to the point of a threat) that he was _not to lose it._

 _Customer service, my butt!_ Harry thought to himself, frowning. _These goblins are worse than Aunt Marge on a bad day!_

* * *

Shopping for school supplies was equally boring and exciting. Harry had just enough to buy a pair of second hand robes (he squawked at the price of tailored robes, immediately searching for a ready-made set), his school books, a small trunk to fit his wares, and potions supplies (and wasn’t that a bizarre thought?). Harry had nearly gawked at the shelves on the apocathary walls, but that required stopping and Harry was in no mood to wander the busy shops. Despite being mostly Unseen, he did garner a bit of attention when the occasional mother would focus on him, eyebrows drawn together as she clearly wondered where his parents were.

Harry had been wishing Very Hard all day that no one would notice Boring Harry and it was beginning to become exhausting.

Harry finally had two stores left; a wand shop and a pet shop. Harry had never owned a pet nor wand before (or cauldron for that matter, either), but something seemed so lovely about having a little creature of his own. Harry decided owning a wand was more important than a pet at the moment and he would buy a pet should his dwindling galleon stash allow it.

Ollivander was an odd concoction of a man, half ancient, half not. He also saw through Harry’s invisibility with horrifying ease and Harry gingerly took the wands from the man’s outstretched hands, ignoring the man’s babbling. Harry jumped in surprise each time a wand reacted and began to feel even more exhausted as the experience drew out.

At last, even Ollivander appeared flabbergasted and both child and man looked at one another for a long moment. Ollivander then scrambled behind his desk and ventured far into his overflowing shelves, disappearing from sight and chatting to himself as he did so. Harry took a seat on a leather armchair and waited patiently for the man to return. At long last, the wandmaker approached with a velveteen box held far away from his body, as if he were carrying a dangerous weapon (and Harry supposed a wand could be considered a dangerous weapon, though the odd man had not behaved like this with the assortment of other wands).

As Harry was presented with the newest wand, laid in a soft satin bed, Harry felt a strange stirring in the air. He collected the smooth wooden stick and the atmosphere shifted immediately, a surge of overwhelming power striking him in his core. Harry could barely describe the experience; he felt as if he had just come out of a trance or a dream. Or, rather, that he was filled with sudden clarity that he had never experienced before in his life. He could _feel it_ , his magic. The pulsing in the air and the crackle of energy at his fingertips.

Harry paid Ollivander no mind as the odd man spoke of brothers, great things and phoenix feathers. He focused solely on the instrument between his fingertips, realising that this wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t all a farce or some dream or perhaps an elaborate prank.

 _Harry Potter is a wizard_ , Harry thought to himself in disbelief. A wizard. Harry shook himself out of his thoughts, realising he was standing in the middle of the wandmaker’s store and perhaps outstaying his welcome.

Realising he had little time to spare before the evening train home, Harry generously thanked the wandmaker, paid an obscene amount of money for the wand (draining his purse to a few galleons), and he hurried out of the store.

Harry went to the pet store mostly to window shop, but Harry felt his heart stop as his eyes landed on an owl. She was _beautiful_ ; white feathered and sharp eyed. She looked at him piercingly, a strange pull drawing him in, but Harry realised with a start upon checking her price-tag that she was much more than he could possibly afford. And he definitely did _not_ want a repeat experience of Gringotts Bank. So Harry sighed wistfully and moved on, browsing the menagerie full of amazing creatures, magical and muggle.

At last, Harry stopped in front of a display which appeared to be mostly empty. He looked through the metal bars and realised that a kitten, perhaps a few months old, hid in the back. In the white cell of its containment, the kitten’s white fur acted as a very good camouflage.

Harry felt instant empathy fill his being as he watched the kitten hide from view, pretending to not be seen.

_“An owl, cat or toad.”_

Harry opened the cage door and reached in. At first, the kitten seemed very scared, lashing out with tiny claws, but as Harry cooed and stroked and whispered sweetly at the tiny beast, it slowly warmed to him. _Two Galleons_ , the sign read.

“Bastet,” a soft voice commented from Harry’s side. Harry turned to a young woman in an apron declaring _Puddington’s Peculiar Pets_ as she nodded at the kitten. “Her name is Bastet.”

 Harry smiled.

* * *

Harry slowly made his way back to Privet Drive after battling for a seat on the train. Thankfully his little trunk, just a bit bigger than a breadbox, held an impossible amount of stuff (expanding, the shopkeeper crowed – and wickedly expensive), and it was not very heavy either. Harry was beginning to realise that witches and wizards were very, very clever.

The hardest thing to do was to hide his kitten from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; Cousin Dudley wasn’t home often as he was busy growing up to be a thug on the streets, so Harry wasn’t too worried about him.

Luckily, the little white kitten knew when to be quiet and was very easily trained to go to the bathroom in the garden in the morning when Harry did his morning chores and just before bed, after which Harry would slink into his cupboard and close the door.

Harry spent most of his free time reading through _Hogwarts: A History_ and his assorted schoolbooks, Bastet sitting on his chest and purring as he gently scratched her soft, pointy ears. Harry had a _lot_ to catch up on. Harry was grateful that the history book told him how to get to the train station and he dreamt of what a school of magic would be like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gringott’s curse/warning quoted directly from 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone'.


	3. The Kitten, The Witch and The Wardrobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry makes frienemies and Dumbledore says a lot of nonsense.

Travelling to London once more with his school supplies and Bastet in tow was as easy, if not easier, than Harry’s trip to Diagon Alley. Harry did not bother saying goodbye to his relatives as he figured the trio would eventually notice his disappearance and telling them of his departure would surely bring up questions Harry preferred not to answer. Harry knew as well that despite his foul relationship with his Aunt and Uncle, they did depend on him heavily for the household chores as well as tutoring his atrocious cousin in classwork. Harry was under no illusion that his relatives would do whatever it took to prevent him leaving and though Harry could defend himself with his ability to do Strange Things, it seemed awfully dramatic and unnecessary to resort to such a thing.

So little Boring Harry departed No. Four Privet Drive without a second thought or wistful moment and arrived at King’s Cross Station in a punctual manner. Thankfully, it was an unusually cool start to September so the travel to Harry’s destination was not marred by uncomfortable smells, sweat, or other-such nonsense caused by overheated, overstressed individuals.

Harry carefully carried his trunk under his left arm and Bastet’s small carrier under his right. Though both containers appeared no bigger than bread boxes, they contained within themselves an amazing plethora of space of which Harry was still most impressed with. He had decided over the summer that he would figure out the Strange Thing occurring to these boxes and would use it for everything.

Bastet had perched herself on Harry’s shoulder, watching with large amber eyes as they passed various groups of departing families and solo travellers on the train station. It was certainly a mark of Harry’s ability to be Unseen for no one gave him a second glance, despite the ashen white kitten sitting on his shoulder and not a parent in sight.

At last Harry arrived at the magical entrance way, otherwise known as Platform 9 ¾, and he stood a good few metres away to gauge the best method of passing through. A man in rather atrocious yellow suit stood as guard next to the portal, scanning the crowd lazily and hand tucked into his pocket. Harry warily watched the oddly dressed man as his eyes roved past the young boy; Harry felt himself relax marginally as he was not immediately noticed by the guard and felt assured that he would not be stopped by this man.

Just as Harry built up the courage to step forward and go through the rather nerve-rackingly solid brick wall, a bustling family of noisy redheaded children and a loud portly woman passed him by. The woman, who appeared to be the mother of this massively motley crew of young gingers did not bother to keep her voice down and shouted, with alarming alacrity, “Platform Nine and Three Quarters, children! Come on, now! Move along!”

Harry gaped at this woman as she bustled her children close to the brick portal, nodding briefly at the guard. The man smiled brittlely at her and rolled his eyes once the woman turned back to her children.  The woman appeared to not be one bit concerned that she was announcing to all of ‘Muggle London’ about the secret portal to the wizarding world. Upon glancing around himself, Harry was even more surprised that while most people gave the family passively annoyed looks, no one had turned and said, _‘Platform Nine_ and Three Quarters? _Have you gone totally mad, woman?’_

In fact, it appeared that by making such a scene, the family of startlingly bright headed people repelled the groups of travellers. Perhaps most thought them crazy, or perhaps most travellers had too much of their own things to think about. Coming from a neighbourhood of people who made a point of criticising one’s neighbours, it alarmed Harry to realise that most people didn’t care. Perhaps it would be a subject he considered later, however, as the family were quickly disappearing one by one through the platform wall as if it were made of vapours, not brick and mortar. Harry sighed a soft noise of relief as he realised that _Hogwarts: A History_ had not lied and in fact this was the correct entrance. Though he had now witnessed an amassing amount of evidence that witches and wizards did indeed exist, Harry found himself wary in this new and odd world.

Harry quickly followed the last ginger through the portal and stumbled through the entranceway, slightly startled that he had encountered no resistance from the wall (after all, no muggles could pass through and Harry was still in a certain amount of shock at the fact he was a wizard) and promptly gasped at the sight before him. The candy-apple red steam locomotive before him was a testament to elegance and beauty; Harry had never seen such an amazing thing before and his jaw dropped in awe. 

The moment quickly ended when Harry felt another person coming through the entrance behind him and he bustled off into the crowds, ducking through throngs of children reuniting with their friends and adults chatting amongst themselves. Harry felt intimately intimidated by the amount of people wandering the station and he quickly found the nearest uninhabited alcove. Harry watched as the steam engine tooted loudly and a conductor blew a golden whistle, indicating to all that it was time to board.

Harry felt himself break into a soft smile as he lowered Bastet off his shoulder and into her carrier, but not before pressing a quick kiss to her soft head.

“Be good, Bastet, and be sure to make some friends,” Harry whispered into the kennel. Bastet did not meow in reply, but she was an abnormally quiet kitten so Harry did not mind.

As he had read in _Hogwarts: A History_ , it was required to place all pets in a designated area of the station and his luggage in another. Harry didn’t like the idea of leaving Bastet on her own, but he knew it would be a terrible idea to start off his first trip to Hogwarts by breaking a rule. So he carefully placed Bastet in a cordoned off area with many different cages and kennels and then deposited his trunk a few meters away.

To Harry surprise, the other trunks were much larger than his own and he wondered for a moment what else his new classmates could possibly need that would fill such a space. Harry had precisely what was needed for school: a change of robes, a couple sets of clothes, and his school supplies. He couldn’t imagine whatever else the other students had brought with them. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Harry approached the train carriages warily.

Harry was already becoming quickly exhausted with the day and it was not yet eleven am. He found himself being quickly bustled into a carriage by the rush of students, ending up in a small room with four Ravenclaw girls. Harry only discovered this because they told him so, cooing and patting his head as they giggled about how ‘ _cute’_ he was. Harry smiled at them disarmingly, increasing his need to be Not Seen a little frantically, and the girls quickly returned to their chattering. It seemed that teenage girls, of which Harry had very little experience before, had much to say. The conversation went on for hours and Harry pulled out a school book from his knapsack, carefully wading through the dense text and ignoring the chatter around him.

It appeared that reading was something that Ravenclaws (or teenage girls – Harry couldn’t be sure) enjoyed, for the girls finally settled and pulled out their own schoolwork too. They poured over theories and Latin words that made Harry’s head spin at their complexity; he wondered if he would need to learn all of this as well.

Dismounting from the train was also a mission, as the girls quickly forgot him and dashed out of the carriage. Harry was swept through the crowds, pushed and bustled as the students parted ways. Harry frowned, wondering where to go, when a giant-sized man called the first years over. Harry followed compliantly, finally settling in a boat with no oars.

Harry appreciated the Strange Thing occurring to the boats as he was pulled over the lake, the full moon reflecting on the glassy waters. He was bundled with another group of girls and a shy, plump boy, who also failed to take notice of him other than smiling politely. Harry gasped alongside his peers as the castle came into view and he was pleased to think that he had made the right choice in coming to Hogwarts.

Harry found himself tire even more as the first years stood in the hall, dressed down by a stern looking woman who announced herself as _Professor McGonagall_. Harry decided immediately that he would not get on this woman’s bad side, intentionally or not, and wished briefly that he had napped on the train.

The ghosts in the castle came to greet them, which was alarming and yet not as Harry had read about them in _Hogwarts: A History_. Harry found himself sitting on the floor at the back of the noisy group of school children, smiling as the ghosts whipped around and gossiped loudly. The Bloody Baron, whose name was murmured with distress by the other students, was the only ghost to look directly at Harry. He felt a shiver of apprehension buckle down his spine as the ghost pinned him with an icy stare, the large stain in front of his robes glittering eerily in the candlelight. Harry nodded at the ghost and broke eye contact, staring at a wall blankly and wishing the ghost would _go away_. It did.

At long last, the children were called one-by-one into the Great Hall. By the time the Sorting had reached the _‘M’_ names, Harry was exhausted. A lithe, sharp featured boy practically pranced up to the stool and placed the Strange talking hat on his head. Just as the fabric crowned his slicked blond hair, the hat shouted “ _Slytherin!”_

The Slytherins clapped while the other houses looked on in distain, a few of the Ravenclaw students clapping unenthusiastically.

At last, Harry heard his name called and he blushed, knowing that his ability to be Not Seen wouldn’t work under direct address. A few students gasped and a large portion of the students in the back of the hall stood, craning their necks to catch a glimpse. Harry wasn’t sure why, but it was very alarming behaviour as the students hadn’t reacted this way towards the other first years.

Harry slunk up to the stool and placed the hat on his head, grateful when the worn fabric fell over his eyes and hid the room from sight.

 _‘Oh, my,’_ a voice announced in his head. Harry blinked owlishly at the words. ‘ _You have quite the interesting tale_ ,’ it continued.

Harry jumped in surprise, eyebrows drawing together. ‘ _Can you hear me?’_ Harry thought curiously.

 _‘Oh yes,_ ’ the voice answered. _‘I can hear quite a lot of your thoughts. Your mind is not very well guarded,_ ’ it continued. _‘One could say unnaturally so.’_

Harry tilted his head at that. ‘ _Is my skull too thin?’_ Harry asked sceptically.

Laughter boomed from the hat, filling his head and spilling into the Great Hall. Harry was once again glad that he couldn’t see the students; the hat certainly hadn’t laughed during the other Sortings.

‘ _No, no,’_ the hat chuckled in his mind. ‘ _You have a very strange mind indeed. ‘Strange Things’, you say? I’m sure we call that a spell.’_

Harry listened. A spell – that made some sense, he supposed. ‘ _I guess I am very boring –’_ He began to think rather complacently.

 _‘Don’t be ridiculous – you’re probably the most interesting child I’ve sorted in years!’_ The hat admonished. _‘But we’re going off course. Slytherin, I dare say. You’re certainly sneaky and devious enough.’_

Harry thought long and hard for a moment, ignoring the odd feeling of the hat’s words washing through his head. ‘ _Okay,’_ Harry agreed simply, shifting his hands to remove the hat.

 _‘Wait – aren’t you going to argue?’_ The hat answered back, surprise colouring its tone.

 _‘No?’_ Harry answered unsurely, hands freezing in the air. ‘ _Am I supposed to? I would think it’s rude to argue, especially since this is your job and I’m sure you know lots more than me.’_

The hat didn’t seem to have an answer to that, quietly mulling over his words. _‘I suppose,_ ’ the hat finally said at last, as if the fun had been sucked out of Harry’s Sorting. ‘ _No complaints?’_ The hat asked abruptly. _‘No whining if you go into Slytherin?’_

Harry frowned thoughtfully, turning the question over in his head. ‘ _I… I don’t think so,’_ Harry answered after what seemed to be an appropriate time to consider the question.

“Very well,” the hat stated moodily, now using his voice rather than telepathy. “Better be – SLYTHERIN!” The hat boomed, making Harry jump in surprise at the volume.

Harry pulled the hat off his head was a little upset that no one clapped as they had with the others. Even though Slytherin was the only house to cheer when a student was sorted into their ranks (only a smattering of outside students clapping politely), the entire Great Hall was deathly silent. The Gryffindor table gaped, the Huffepuffs blinked, and the Ravenclaws burst into fierce whispers. Even the Slytherins seemed shocked, blank faces looking at Harry in ashen confusion.

Harry stood and placed the hat down on the stool, bending over to whisper his farewell. The hat merely chuckled and the tip of the peaked hat dipped in a mimicry of a nod.

The small, raven-haired boy walked over to the house with green ties, waffling slightly when open spots on the benches were suddenly filled as the students stretched out. Harry walked down the long table, finally coming across a small gap of students that his housemates had yet to fill. Harry sat down quickly amongst what appeared to be seventh years, as they looked to be eldest of the table, and smiled at them politely.

A couple students sneered at him openly, but most of his housemates seemed suddenly fascinated with the cutlery and chinaware on the table.

McGonagall cleared her throat loudly at the front of the Great Hall but no one turned to face her, all eyes burning into Harry’s back. He wished desperately that the other houses would ignore him, forget him, _Unsee_ him, but nothing happened. Harry sighed softly as McGonagall cleared her throat sharply once more, the students finally turning back to the Sorting as another name was called.

The Sorting didn’t last long after that. Harry sat patiently with his hands in his lap as a wizened old man, who looked exactly how Harry would have expected a wizard to look, gave an odd speech. The old man’s bright blue eyes passed by Harry’s side of the table, but something about that man scared Harry, so he ducked his head and picked at his fraying sleeve. The wizard seemed to have piercing eyes, eyes that saw everything and everyone for what they were. The thought had Harry shuddering.

When dinner was announced, Harry gaped at the platters of food, the carafes of drink, the impossible mound of every possible cuisine appearing into existence with much fanfare. The other four long tables burst into conversation with gusto, yet the Slytherin table remained eerily quiet bar the murmured conversations rippling down the table.

“What, never seen food before?” Sneered an unnamed seventh year (from what Harry assumed, for he looked so old) directly to his left. Harry turned to him, keeping small and unnoticeable, and smiled unsurely at the student. The boy was sandy-haired and had sharp features with a strong nose. Dark brown eyes pinned Harry to the spot and Harry blinked owlishly at the elder boy. Finally, the seventh year pursed his lips and returned to his food, as Harry had hoped, and Harry carefully snuck a few items on to his plate and feeling a little naughty while doing so. Harry was never allowed to eat at a table; he either ate while he cooked or worked, or at his desk at school. Harry had never sat down at a banquet.

“Ugh,” a voice cut through. Harry looked up to see a rather beautiful blonde girl twisting her face in disgust from across the table. She looked like a seventh year too. Harry looked around, realising he was very far away from students his own age and then looked down at his plate. He wasn’t using his cutlery like the other students and blushing brightly as he realised that he was supposed to. “Use your silverware, you animal. Were you raised by _Muggles_?” The girl asked scathingly, tossing her head.

Harry tilted his head at her question, unsure why she had asked. “Yes,” Harry answered politely, wiping gravy off his fingertips and jaw with a thick napkin. Though he’d only had a couple small bites of chicken, Harry didn’t feel very hungry anymore.

Even though she had asked the question, the blonde girl looked taken aback by his answer. In fact, everyone in the vicinity who heard his answer seemed taken aback too.

“Seriously?” The sandy-haired boy on Harry’s left questioned, making Harry turn to him.

“Yes,” Harry answered simply, looking up at the boy through his large, coke-bottle glasses.

“Oh. Er, okay,” the boy was suddenly saying. “You don’t – you’re not, like, a blood traitor or anything, are you?”

“Of course he is,” hissed the girl, “he’s a _Potter_.”

Harry watched this interaction curiously, listening to the words in bafflement and unsure of the subtext. Harry slowly curled in on himself, becoming a smaller target on the bench, and the girl and boy seemed to forget he was there completely as they argued. Harry was largely successful at wishing to be Not Seen, for the other students’ eyes roved over him, not stopping nor focusing on him, and the conversation around him picked up slowly. Harry pushed his plate forward, placed his forearms on the table and rested his cheek on his laced fingers, kicking his feet as he waited for the end of the feast. Harry was so very, very tired and the smell of food, the warmth of the room, the stress of the day – Harry dozed off.

“Hey, Potter!” A voice cut through his light dozing. Harry opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the boy on his left. “Are you actually _sleeping_?” The boy asked, aghast.

“Yes,” Harry answered, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “Is that rude too?” Harry asked curiously.

“Well,” the boy started, surprised. “It’s pretty stupid, seeing how most people at this table want to skin you alive.”

Harry looked at the boy with wide eyes, mouth twisting as he absorbed this information. “But why?” Harry asked.

The boy looked at him then with such flabbergasted surprise that Harry felt stupid, like he had with the goblins at Gringotts Bank. Harry didn’t particularly like the feeling.

“Surely _you know_ ,” the blonde girl cut in, ignoring the other students that watched their conversation out of the corner of their eyes. Harry was very good at noticing when people noticed him.

“No,” Harry answered curiously. “I don’t.”

“Potter,” a new boy cut in from his right, dark and handsome and possibly in seventh year too. “When you say that you were raised _by_ Muggles… Does that mean you were raised Muggle too?”

A few other students leaned in close to hear the answer, his half of the Slytherin table going quiet.

“I suppose so,” Harry answered unsurely. This lot didn’t seem to be the kind that liked receiving half-truths but did prefer them over no answer at all.

“Harry,” the blonde girl cut through, eyes narrowing at him. Harry shrunk further into his seat, feeling the older students towering over him. “How did you get your scar?”

Harry frowned at the question, looking around as a student down the table gasped and the others shifted uncomfortably. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said it was a car crash, but that was looking less plausible by the day. His parents must be magical, if he had a bank account at Gringotts with their name on it, and Harry supposed that most witches and wizards didn’t drive around often. Besides, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon weren’t exactly known for telling the truth to Harry.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered truthfully.

“Merlin,” the boy to his left breathed, as the girl inhaled sharply. “You’re a clean slate, aren’t you?”

Harry didn’t know what that meant, so he smiled unsurely at the boy and wished that he could just be forgotten. It didn’t work.

Just as the blonde girl opened her mouth once more to talk, the Headmaster stood to his feet and the hall went silent. The girl closed her mouth with an audible click but continued staring at Harry intently.

The Headmaster, of whom Harry had yet to find out his name, said a few strange words once more. Harry wasn’t sure why an entire floor of the school was unusable, nor why a forest would be forbidden, but he was too tired to care. The students took his odd string of incoherent words as a dismissal and stood quickly. Harry stood to join his housemates and long fingers laced through his.

Harry looked up in surprise at the tall, dark boy from his right in surprise. He felt a blush flash across his face at the touch, something he wasn’t familiar with. Harry thought for a moment and realised he couldn’t remember the last time _anyone_ touched him (bar the evil little goblins).

“Come on, Harry,” the handsome boy crooned. “We’ll take you to the Common Rooms.”

Harry let himself be pulled along, too tired to protest and secretly enjoying the feeling of holding someone’s hand. Not that he would _ever_ admit it.

* * *

 

The Slytherin Common Room was very far down in the castle and Harry felt a little uncomfortable at the thought of being underground. He gaped at the sight of a lake hovering over the Common Room, watching the odd green light bathe everything in its glow. The furnishings were expensive, the fireplace crackled ominously, and the other students watched him like a hawk. Harry wished he could go to bed.

The blonde girl pulled Harry away from the tall, dark boy and sat him on her lap as she leaned back on a velvet chaise sofa. Harry felt his blush make a reappearance, a little embarrassed with how easily the beautiful girl could manhandle him. His feet dangled off the edge as she pulled him close, his back pressed against her chest. She was very warm, though perhaps a little bony, but Harry sighed into her frame and pretended that no one else was watching.

The other First Years seemed affronted that Harry was kidnapped by the Seventh Years and squabbled on the other side of the Common Room, a circle of children shooting him dark looks. Harry shivered and sunk deeper into the girl’s lap.

“We’ll take care of you, Harry,” the girl murmured in his ear. Harry turned his head and looked at her in surprise.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Harry answered a little firmly, though he whispered so the other gossiping students couldn’t hear. “I’m very good at taking care of myself.”

The blonde girl’s eyebrows drew together at his statement, eyes narrowing in thought. “When was the last time someone took care of you, sweetheart?” She asked, her lips twisting into a frown.

Harry considered that for a while. “I don’t know what you mean,” Harry finally answered at last. The girl’s eyes only narrowed further at his words, though Harry didn’t know why, but she was stopped from talking once more by the appearance of a bat.

At least, that was what it looked like to Harry. A large, very pale man swooped into the room, expensively tailored robes blooming behind him in a non-existent draft. Harry froze as the man’s black eyes swept over the room and settled on him, eyes pinning him with alarming clarity. Harry looked down as something shifted in his stomach, recalling the hat’s words from before. He wondered if this man could read his mind too and shivered at the thought.

“Welcome to the new school year,” the man suddenly crooned, his words as thick as honey but without a single bit of sweetness. “I am Severus Snape, the Slytherin Head of House. You will refer to me as Professor Snape, or Sir.

“Slytherin has been a stronghold, a _tradition_ , of Hogwarts for centuries. No matter your blood, no matter your background, you are now one of us. You will uphold that tenant and there will be no fighting in public. You are to provide a united front. You will not lose points. You will finish your homework and do well in class. Do you have any questions?” The man asked coldly and Harry realised that it was largely rhetorical. The man didn’t seem the kind to answer just any question.

A hand rose in the air and the students focused on the blond first year with a last name beginning in _M_. Harry couldn’t remember.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” the Head of House stated, icy gaze turning to the confident boy.

“What about Potter?” The blond sneered. A few students tittered at that question, but Snape silenced them all with a look.

Harry wasn’t sure why the blond boy had mentioned him. People seemed to be doing that a lot now.

“The same applies _._ No fighting _outside of these walls_ ,” Snape emphasised, though looking as if he bit into a lemon as he did so.

The blond boy smirked at the emphasis. Harry wondered if fighting _inside_ the Common Room was allowed.

“Go to bed. Curfew is at nine for the younger years, ten thirty for the fifth years and up. Don’t make me come after you,” Snape snarled. Harry clenched his hands together so tightly that they went white as the man’s stare once more flickered to himself. The blonde girl’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him even closer to her frame, and the Head of House’s gaze flickered to the girl. She stiffened.

“My office is down the hall, to the right. Do not disturb me unless you are dying or worse,” the bat said. Harry nodded along with the other students, wondering what was worse than dying. Professor Snape then swooped out of the Common Room as quickly as he had arrived and the room broke out into loud conversation.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked suddenly, turning to the blonde girl. She looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, sorry love,” she answered. “Macaria Greengrass,” she stated, “But you can call me Mollie.”

“Mollie,” Harry answered, rolling the name on his tongue. It suited her.

“I’m Damon,” the handsome boy who held his hand before cut in, looking down at Harry with a smirk as he hovered over the young boy and Mollie. A hand was reached out to shake his, but Harry felt that he had enough touching for tonight (especially since he was still on Mollie’s lap) and he merely smiled politely back.

“Andrea Dolohov,” the sandy-haired boy who spoke to him at the Feast butt in, collapsing into an armchair as Mollie waved off Damon with a dismissive hand and roll of her eyes.

“My second cousin, Daphne, is in your year,” Mollie quipped suddenly, looking over at the group of first years by a large hearth. “Perhaps she’ll take care of you, too.”

Harry frowned, becoming irritated with Mollie’s obsession of him needing taking care of. “I’m very independent,” Harry stated.

“I’m sure,” Mollie laughed. “But you can hardly go through life as an island.”

Harry didn’t know what she meant, but he assumed it meant he had to be with other people. “I can try,” Harry answered.

Mollie laughed, ruffling his hair. “You are _so cute_ ,” she giggled.

“How can you tell?” Andrea asked, rolling his eyes. “I can’t see anything past that mop of hair and those horrible glasses.”

Mollie’s hands were suddenly on his face and Harry inhaled sharply as his glasses were pulled off. Harry stiffened immediately, suddenly feeling just as exposed now as he had with the goblins. He desperately hoped that his group wouldn’t tie him to a chair and force him to swallow truth-drink too.

A blurry shape where Harry knew Damon to be moved forward suddenly and Harry flinched back, horribly unsure of what was happening. He reached out for his glasses blindly, blushing darkly as he tried to pull his fringe over his face.

“Harry,” the girl breathed, a soft finger guiding under his chin. Harry protested weakly against her attempts to lift his chin, but he felt intimidated by the sudden change in the situation.

Harry lifted his face to Mollie’s, neck bent as he looked at her with wide, worried eyes.

“You are _adorable_ ,” Mollie whispered. Harry blushed darker at that; Harry knew it wasn’t true and compliments were not something that Harry was used to.

A hand grabbed his chin and Harry jumped as his jaw was yanked out of Mollie’s hold, coming face to face with Damon, warily watching the elder boy’s features as they neared. Their noses almost touched as he was studied like a bug on a microscope.

“Fascinating,” Damon whispered as he kneeled in front of Mollie and, thus, Harry. Harry suddenly realised that this boy had very blue eyes. They looked like the Headmaster’s and it made Harry very uncomfortable.

Harry tried to tug his chin away, suddenly feeling very trapped between Mollie’s ironclad forearms locked around his waist and Damon’s tight grip. A feeling of panic welled in his stomach as Harry realised that he didn’t know where his glasses were and everyone in the room was likely looking at him, catching him out for doing a Strange Thing – or spell, did the hat call it?

“Aw,” Damon suddenly crooned. “There’s no need to cry, Harry.”

Harry blushed as he realised that the blurriness in his eyes wasn’t helped by the welling of tears and he made one final jerk of his jaw, thankfully pulling away from Damon’s tight hand. Mollie gasped, and easily rotated him with nimble hands so that he sat across her lap.

“Oh, Harry,” Mollie whispered, holding his glasses out in front of him. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

Harry scowled and grabbed his glasses, pulling them back on as quickly as possible and willing the tears to go away. There was something off about these students, a dark undertone that made Harry feel uncomfortable. He had a feeling that Mollie was pretending to be someone that she wasn’t, that Damon was not very nice, and that Andrea might be the only one close to normal of the group. But even Andrea gave him a bad feeling and that worried him most of all.

Harry learned a lot by watching people from the background, cataloguing their behaviours and words with the fascination of an anthropologist. An outside observer with no role or part in the game. He might seem small and innocent to these Seventh Years, but Harry _knew_ that he wasn’t an idiot. He just didn’t know the rules of their game yet.

“And there you go,” Andrea whispered, watching the younger boy curiously as he became Boring Harry. “Odd glasses you’ve got there, Harry.”

Harry relaxed, retreating into himself and closing the metaphorical door firmly behind. He smiled at the boy glassily, expression cleared from his earlier distress.

“So many layers,” Damon whispered, leaning forward with a curled hand to stroke well-manicured nails down the side of Harry’s face.

“I’m very tired,” Harry said softly, ignoring the boy’s touch as he felt his mind beginning to shut down, overwhelmed by the day’s events. Harry was quickly beginning to understand that if he wished a little too much or too hard throughout the day, he was quickly sapped of most of his energy. “Would it be alright if I went to bed?” He asked Mollie, turning his head to look at her calculating eyes and ignoring Damon. The boy didn’t seem to like that, for he huffed and sat down on the sofa next to them with a scowl.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Mollie crooned, snuggling him closer. Harry felt his stomach clench; it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. “Your room is down the hall, seventh door on the left. Your stuff should be in there by now.”

Harry smiled at her blankly, wishing _Very Hard_ that he could pass through the Common Rooms unnoticed. Mollie smiled back, but it was a strange expression on her beautiful face – as if her cheek muscles weren’t used to it. She released Harry and he quickly strode across the room, not daring to speak to Damon or Andrea and making quick work of finding his dorm.

As he’d wished, the other students barely noticed him as he passed by and Harry breathed a sigh of annoyance once the door shut behind him. It appeared he was the first student to go to sleep and he checked under the bed, relieved when he saw his school trunk.

Harry wondered where little Bastet was as her travel carrier door was open. As if summoned, a weak mewling could be heard under the covers of the bed and a little ball moved around under the duvet. Harry smiled and peeled back the blanket, his eyes settling on a fluffy white kitten.

“Hello, there,” Harry whispered, his chest aching in adoration at the little creature’s meows of excitement. “I’m sorry I had to leave you with the other pets. Did you make any friends?”

The kitten mewled his response and Harry sighed, crawling into the bed after quickly changing into his nightclothes. Bastet hopped onto his chest and Harry kept very still as she kneaded, turning on the spot and settling just below his breast bone. She fell asleep instantly and Harry felt himself drawn into sleep by the kitten’s warmth, the soft snores making him smile.


	4. An Unforgettable Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder to all readers, there is a descriptive instance of animal violence/murder in this chapter. If you are sensitive to this sort of thing, DO NOT read the first 10 paragraphs of this chapter.

Harry awoke suddenly at some point in the night, inhaling sharply as he realised that he was… Wet. Harry sat up quickly, body shaking in mortification. Had he wet the bed? He hadn’t done so in years! A strange dripping sound caught his attention and as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the near total darkness, he realised his curtains were pulled around his four-poster bed. Harry didn’t recall drawing the curtains before going to bed and he frowned in confusion.

Harry held out his hand and wished for light, as he oft did in the cupboard under the stairs. A small glowing ball erupted on his palm and Harry froze in horror.

Over his stomach, from the top beams of the four-poster bed, hung little Bastet. Her eyes were perched open glassily and throat slashed. Her soft white fur was stained a startling red, a horrible burst of colour against her soft downy fur. Blood oozed from the jagged wound, cold, and dripped on Harry’s lap.

Harry gazed ahead in mind-numbing horror, staring blankly as the creature spun slightly in the light draft of the room. Every muscle in Harry’s body ached as if cramped, his mind emptying of all thought and heart suddenly hollow. After a few moments of staring emptily, Harry slowly rose to his knees and lifted his hands. The ball of light stuck to his palm and guided his shaking hands as he untied the thick knot on the creature’s neck.

Harry felt the stiff, light weight of the kitten drop into his hands and he nearly vomited. Harry kept still as he tried to think what to do. In his haze, Harry realised that it was important to bury something when it died. He didn’t know why, but a funeral seemed necessary. Required. His mind shuttered and scrambled, thinking of where to go.

Harry slowly peaked open the canopy of his four-poster bed, extinguishing the ball of light as he did so. His eyes once more adjusted to the darkness and he saw that the other five beds in the room had their curtains closed, like his. Light breathing filled the room and Harry wished Very Hard that everyone would be deeply asleep. After a few moments, the breathing became heavier and Harry felt sure that he wouldn’t be disturbed. Harry was filled with a sudden overwhelming urge to punish his roommates, to pull them from their beds and force Bastet’s end upon them. To make them suffer as she suffered. Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling the horrible darkness filling his soul blacken his insides like a tree burnt out from an internal fire.

After Harry fought down his rage, he pulled his robe over his night clothes and shuddered at the feeling of blood dripping down his legs as he stood. Harry snuck out of the dorm room, quietly whispering down the hall on bare feet. He passed through the Common Rooms portal, trying to remember the password to get back in but his mind was too scattered and diced to concentrate.

Harry wandered around for nearly half an hour, going up stairs and across landings as he searched for an exit. The little kitten was nearly completely hard in his hands and Harry wished more than anything that he could find the outdoors, wishing desperately to put down Bastet.

Harry’s feet lead him to a large set of oak doors and Harry pulled on the handle. His fingers slipped as the drying blood on his hands made it difficult to grasp the handle, but Harry persisted and the door finally creaked open. Harry looked out at a large, grassy field and the moon shone down brightly, casting the scene with eerie light and strange two dimensional shadows. Harry trotted down the steps, barely registering his cold feet as they slipped through the cold, dewy grass. He quickly walked to the edge of a large forest, wondering distantly if this was the Forbidden Forest the Headmaster had spoken of earlier that night.

Harry stopped as soon as he came across a line of trees. He fell to his knees, body numb from chill and horror, and placed the kitten down softly. Harry turned to the hard dirt and beginning to dig with his hands. Harry didn’t take notice as little stones cut into his hands as he ripped out dirt and roots with mindless obsession.

“You shouldn’t be walking around at night,” a voice murmured behind him.

Harry flinched and turned on his knees slowly, eyes clashing with those of a tall, turbaned man. Harry recognised the tall silhouette as a teacher from the Great Hall and he blanched.

“And you shouldn’t come to the edge of the forest reeking of blood,” the man continued, voice unnaturally deep and dangerous. The man’s eyes flickered to the kitten on the ground, glowing orbs in the darkness, head tilting curiously. “Did you kill it?” He asked nonchalantly.

Harry looked at the man, uncomfortable with how easily the teacher saw through his invisibility and watched Boring Harry with piercing eyes. “No,” Harry whispered, the syllable almost impossible to choke out through his chattering teeth.

“Was it yours?” The man pressed, moonlight streaming over his back and shadowing his face. Harry felt the cold begin to seep into his bones as the man’s tall shadow loomed over Harry.

“Yes,” Harry responded, voice barely audible even in the dead silence.

“They’re testing you,” the man stated, head tilting smoothly. “They want to see if they can push you around. I suggest you push back.”

Harry didn’t answer, but he didn’t turn around either. This man didn’t seem like someone he wanted to turn his back to.

“I don’t push very hard,” Harry whispered.

“Then learn how to,” the man retorted, his voice like a whipping crack in the moonlit silence.

“Is it alright if I finish?” Harry asked suddenly, not wanting to be around this man or at the edge of the forest. There was a strange clicking noise coming from just a few trees away and it filled Harry’s stomach with dread.

“If you must,” the man replied, frown evident in his voice.

Harry turned back around, ignoring his instincts telling him not to, and placed the kitten in the shallow hole he had dug. Harry then carefully pushed the dirt over it, creating a small mound. He lifted a stick and speared it through a leaf, putting the little flag at the top of the mound like a tombstone. A moment of silence passed as Harry stared at the little mound of dirt, recalling with odd dissociation that not a few hours ago Bastet had been with him in bed, warmly purring as his fingers stroked her soft fur.

“Done?” The professor asked sarcastically.

Harry wondered if all professors were like this man. Judging by Snape’s warmth during the Slytherin meeting, it seemed likely so.

“Get up. I’m taking you back to your dorm,” the man stated. Harry stood to his feet and made no attempts to wipe the dirt from his trousers, instead watching the man’s strange movements. The teacher acted as if controlled like a marionette, jerky but smooth in all the wrong places. It made Harry’s skin crawl.

“No thank you,” Harry answered politely, firmly.

“Don’t you want to clean up?” The man asked, turning and raising an eyebrow. His face came into view in the moonlight and Harry was surprised to see a once handsome man whose features were slowly fading into nothing, as if the life was being sucked right out of him.

Harry looked at the lake, wondering if it would be cold.

“I’d advise against it,” the man murmured, following his line of sight. “The squid wouldn’t mind. But the grindylows would frenzy over the blood.”

Harry looked at him curiously, eyes narrowing in thought at the man’s incomprehensible words. Harry wondered if he should ask him what a grindylow was. He decided against it. “I don’t want to go back,” Harry answered, his own voice sounding distorted in his ears as if under water. “Is there a gym here that I can shower in?”

The man laughed, but it was an odd, echoing noise that rose the hairs on Harry’s arms. “Yes, but those showers are not heated. Come, you can clean yourself in my chambers.”

Harry didn’t like the thought of being alone with this man any longer, but he had a feeling that the statement was more command than invitation. Harry followed the man miserably towards the castle, wincing at the sight of small, bloody footprints marring the castle steps.

“You quite literally left a trail,” the man murmured, hand passing over the dark dried blood on the handle of the grand doors and vanishing the mess without a word. “You’ll have to be more aware of yourself, child, if you plan to survive.”

Harry didn’t have time to ponder on those words, for the professor strode down the hallway quickly. Harry trotted as he followed behind a safe distance, his skin long gone cool and flesh numbing with the chill. Even his insides felt cold, his stomach rolling and chest empty.

The strange pair arrived at a large wooden door after a seemingly endless amount of walking, Harry’s body aching as they stopped, and the turbaned professor turned to Harry.

“After you,” the man announced, pushing the door open after an inaudible password was whispered into the frame. Harry stepped inside and was taken aback by the taxidermied creatures lining the walls and jars of pickled eyes leering at him.

“The bathroom is the last door on the left down the hall. Don’t take too long,” the man stated dryly. Harry quickly followed his instructions and closed the bathroom door firmly behind him. Harry leant against the door and wished Very Hard that the door wouldn’t open until he asked it to do so. He felt the magic take shape and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Harry showered quickly, washing his hair and the thin layer of browning blood off his frame. Harry then turned to his clothes, pulling them into the shower and washing them out too. Harry only had a few changes of clothes and wasn’t even sure how to do laundry at the castle. Did they have washing machines and dryers? Harry’s mind wandered over meaningless thoughts, shielding away from anything remotely to do with the contents of the past hour.

Harry stepped out of the shower, drying himself off with a wish and evaporating the water from his clothes. He dressed quickly and realised how much better he felt now that the kitten’s blood was gone.

As Harry stared into the mirror over the sink, a sob tore through his chest, surprising himself with its severity. A flood of emotions suddenly filled little Harry, his detached apathy quivering under the tsunami of pain. Harry gripped the sink edge and felt large, hot droplets drip from his eyes. Harry shook as he tried to control himself, wishing desperately that the professor wasn’t able to hear him break. Heat hotter than a blue flame quickly licked through his insides, that odd feeling of a burnt tree once more hollowing out his own insides, leaving a dark shudder through little Harry’s frame.

After a few moments, Harry drank cool water directly from the tap and felt himself calm, sinking back into that shocked state of detachment which had kept him so composed. He washed his face carefully then put his glasses on and righted his clothes.

Harry walked back into the living room of the professor’s chambers and nodded at the man, who sat in a large armchair by the fire and sprawled out as if the worn leather chair were a throne.  
“What’s your name?” Harry asked suddenly, blushing as the words tumbled from his mouth before he could think.

The professor turned to him, eyes almost appearing to glow red in the firelight.

“Quirrell,” the man stated, turning back to the fire moodily, but Harry didn’t think he was telling the truth.

“No,” Harry contradicted in a soft murmur, tilting his head as he looked at the professor. “Have we met before?” He asked curiously, a spark of recognition or, perhaps, déjá vu tingling the back of his mind.

The man’s face whipped around to face him, eyes now definitely glowing red. “What did you say?” The professor hissed, unnaturally sharp teeth bared.

“Are you a vampire?” Harry pressed, watching the man’s reaction carefully. “That would be odd, though, because you smell like garlic and I didn’t think that vampires liked garlic.”

The man gaped at him, all fury disappearing in the blink of an eye. “You are a very strange child,” Quirrell (for that was all Harry could refer to him for now) stated.

Harry hummed noncommittally. “What do you teach?” Harry queried.

The man smirked, cheekbones alight in the glow of the flames. “Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he drawled, as if telling an inside joke.

“What does that consist of?” Harry asked curiously.

“You never stop talking, do you?” Quirrell muttered irritably. “Shut up and sit down.”

Harry didn’t think that professors were supposed to talk like that, but it seemed like something that Professor Snape would say too, so perhaps wizards just weren’t very nice. From his experience so far, that theory seemed entirely plausible.

Harry sat down on an ottoman across the hearth from the man, wrapping cold hands around his knees.

“You have a very odd illusion on you,” Quirrell stated suddenly. “Why?”

Harry looked at the man, surprised. “Why not?” Harry asked, shrugging. Harry had become very good at deflecting questions, especially when adults were not really looking for an answer at all.

Quirrell looked less than appeased.

“Do you know much about potions?” Harry asked, changing the subject. Quirrell sneered at him.

“Enough to get by,” Quirrell stated darkly. Harry had the feeling that was something someone would say when they were either very poor at something or very, very good. He wasn’t sure which one Quirrell was.

“Do you know of a clear potion that makes you tell the truth?” Harry enquired, gazing into the fire.

“Why?” Quirrell demanded, hackles rising at the question.

“The goblins made me drink it,” Harry answered simply, realising that the man probably thought he was threatening him. Harry didn’t mind; this man did not seem like the kind to be intimidated by threats.

“Veritaserum,” the man breathed, a dark smirk shadowing his face. “You must have upset them.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry whispered.

“No one ever does,” Quirrell replied, turning back to the fire. “Aren’t you tired?” He asked suddenly, the tension in the room shifting as the conversation turned abruptly.

“No,” Harry answered, despite the exhaustion clawing at his mind.

Quirrell laughed. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

Harry looked at him then, appraising the man curiously. “How?” Harry asked, eyebrows drawing together.

“For one, you’re a terrible liar. You’ll need to get better at that if you plan to survive Slytherin,” Quirrell quipped, lips quirking in a mockery of a smile.

“And second?” Harry pressed.

“That’s none of your concern,” Quirrell whispered, darkly amused. “Come now, I’ll take you back to your Common Rooms.”

Harry sighed, realising he’d lost the argument and surprised to discover that he’d rather spend the rest of the night talking to this strange, dangerous shadow of a person instead of returning to the dorms he was meant to spend the next seven years.

Harry followed Quirrell as he was led back down into the dungeons. They walked in silence, Harry a few steps behind the tall man and peaking up at his turban occasionally. It smelt gross and caused a greasy, odd feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

The pair stopped just before the Slytherin Common Rooms entrance, the stone wall appearing for all intents and purposes unmovable. It reminded Harry of the pub entrance to Diagon Alley, but more ominous.

Harry tried to stall.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Harry questioned, turning to the professor. He didn’t particularly want to, but it seemed like a good idea to keep tabs on this man.

Quirrell turned to Harry with a dark glint in his eye. “I’ll have you in class tomorrow. Though you won’t recognise me, child,” he stated cryptically.

“Are you going to make me forget?” Harry asked warily.

Quirrell snorted through a laugh. “I don’t go around Oblivating school children,” Quirrell retorted. “At least, not anymore. Besides, this is interesting.”

With that, the man leaned against the portal and whispered the forgotten password against the stone wall. The stone blocks began to move, melting away to reveal green-lit Common Rooms. Mollie sat in the room, wringing her hands nervously next to an ashen faced Andrea and a rather unimpressed, tired looking Damon.

Harry was pushed forward unceremoniously into the room. “Head Girl. You should keep a better eye on your belongings,” Quirrell stated, though Harry wasn’t sure if the man was talking to him or Mollie.

Mollie gasped and lurched to her feet, catching Harry as he stumbled. Harry turned just in time to see a turban vanish through the entrance portal, disappearing down the hall.

“Merlin, Harry,” Mollie whispered as she fell to her knees and hugged him tightly. “What happened?”

Harry offered her a hollow mockery of a smile as the beautiful girl pulled away to stare at him firmly. “Nothing at all,” Harry answered blankly. “What does Oblivate mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To liberally quote Lemony Snicket, “The way sadness works is one of the strangest riddles of the world.”
> 
> From personal experience, I can say that boarding school is not a very pleasant experience if your roommates do not like you.


	5. Trial & Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry discovers who, exactly, Quirrell is and is not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late post! I have a multitude of explanations and excuses that honestly that won't really mean much, so we'll just steam right ahead into the chapter. I hope you enjoy!

The following week passed by very slowly at first, then sped up as Harry fell into a routine. Harry had finally questioned his unrelenting popularity and Mollie regaled the tale of his childhood, bringing down a Dark Lord and his parents dying in his defence. The girl made him borrow many books about himself from the library and Harry’s eyes widened to saucers as he read the fantastical tales theorising his disappearance from public eye. Harry wished he had spent the years learning martial arts in China, or sword fighting in Russia, or even curse-breaking in Egypt. That sounded much more fun than playing domestic servant for the Dursleys.

Harry decided that he wouldn’t sleep in the dorms anymore, feeling a little wary of his dormmates and too open in the large space. The day after his kitten was murdered, Harry found a dusty broom closet that didn’t appear to have been used in years; it was even a little larger than his cupboard under the stairs. He wished Very Hard that no one would be able to find it and promptly moved his stuff into the cramped storage space. As he lay there on his second night at Hogwarts, Harry realised how much he missed tight, dark havens and spiders spinning webs in the ceiling spaces.

Harry kept his bed curtains wished closed and didn’t bother cleaning up the blood. Harry used the shower in his dorm room still, as he didn’t feel like imposing on the strange Quirrell anymore, and Harry smiled to himself at the coppery, tangy stench building in the room.

Quirrell was indeed a very different person than he met the first night. He would have hardly recognised the professor, if it weren’t for the turban. The stuttering, fidgety man barely making his way through the lessons was nothing like Harry recalled and he would have thought that he had imagined their first meeting if the man didn’t look at him ever so often with a flash of red in his eye.

Harry was pushed towards his housemates by an exasperated Mollie, who seemed to become bored with his existence as the days went on and his presence didn’t increase her social standing. She, of course, kept tabs on the first year but for the most part left Harry to his own devices. Harry didn’t mind. The tumultuous rumour mill swirling around him slowly evaporated as the days passed when the students began to realise that Harry was Very Boring. The students seemed disappointed at first, but as the days continued to fly by, his peers seemed to forget he even existed. Sure, they talked about Harry Potter. But the odd, small, unnoticeable boy in Slytherin didn’t fit their mould of the hero, so they ignored him in favour of imagining the strong, brash Gryffindor that he should have been.

Harry, again, didn’t mind. It was nice to slowly fade into the background once more, to become less interesting than the drab wallpaper glued to the walls of No. Four Privet Drive.

Draco Malfoy seemed to rule the roost of Slytherin firsties and apparently inspired fear in the hearts of the eleven-year-old children in the other houses. Harry didn’t understand why; Malfoy appeared to be more bark than bite. Perhaps these children had never been bullied before. When the blond cornered him after potions with a wand in his face, Professor Snape walking out of the room as if not noticing, Harry stared blankly at him, a bubble of disparaging laughter filling his chest. Malfoy demanded to know if he was sleeping in the dorms, if he was sleeping alongside his pet’s rotting corpse. Demanded that he remove the stench in the room.

Harry did his best impression of Quirrell’s dark smirk and didn’t answer, turning on his heels and walking out of the classroom. That seemed to upset Malfoy. The blond didn’t bother him after.

Harry wasn’t sleeping well, as his dreams were often filled with memories of blood and glassy eyes, and it showed. As the first week melted into the second, and the second into the third, Harry spent most of his time in the library pouring over his studies. Harry felt like he had been dropped into the deep end of witchcraft and wizardry, without the exposure and tutorage that his non-muggleborn peers had received in preparation for Hogwarts. The only other muggleborn who seemed as desperate as him to catch up was a bossy Gryffindor girl named Hermione. They would sit at a desk between the shelves in the library, not speaking except to swap notes, hands cramping as they slowly adjusted to using quills instead of pencils, filling out page after page of parchment.

Harry didn’t particularly care for Hermione at first, but she seemed to be the only one besides Quirrell who didn’t immediately dismiss him or want something from him besides his personality, unlike Mollie and her two male friends. Despite his attempts to remain hidden, there was a small part of him that felt satisfaction when he was noticed despite being Unseen. It was a dangerous feeling and Harry realised he should probably squash it while he could. He didn’t.

For the first week of classes, Harry often forgot to bring his wand. He found himself irritated that he wasn’t supposed to go without it until fifth year. It seemed like a waste of energy and time to spend endless days waving a stick. Instead of wishing to get what he wanted, Harry needed to know complicated Latin words and waving gestures. It made sense if he wanted a very particular thing to occur and not leave his magic up to fate, but it was infinitely less appealing spending the next seven years learning long-extinct Latin and Germanic phrases when he could be expanding his magical ability.

But Harry noticed that the other children needed a wand to do magic, unlike his ability to do Strange Things, and Harry realised that he was odd, even amongst the witches and wizards. The few things Harry had done without a wand was excused as accidental magic and it seemed easier for his professors to think so than to recognise wandless magic. So Harry would apologise politely at a furious McGonagall or a shocked Flitwick, and return to his cupboard to collect his wand – or wherever he forgot it last.

Harry never forgot to bring his wand to Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was a mark of his ability to be Not Seen when the other students didn’t even comment on it.

Harry didn’t meet Night-Quirrell again after the first night, the man now Day-Quirrell for the foreseeable future. Even when Harry passed him in a corridor, there was always a few people lurking and the man didn’t seem to notice him. But when Harry would pass by, he felt the heat of eyes on his back. Harry would turn and look over his shoulder, shuddering as he realised that the man wasn’t even looking at him. Something about his turban gave Harry the heebie-jeebies.

It was nearly two months into school when Harry accidentally (and quite literally) dropped into the third corridor. One of his year-mates, a rather grumpy redhead Gryffindor with a penchant for saying ‘ _Slimy Slytherin!’_ in people’s faces like it meant something, had shoved Malfoy while on the moving staircase on their way to Double Potions. Malfoy smacked into Goyle, and Goyle backed straight into Harry. Harry had no chance of recovery after the boy’s enormous bulk body-slammed him.

A fracas broke out on the moving staircase and no one noticed that Harry had fallen off, most too concerned with holding on for dear life as the redhead and Malfoy starting duelling. Harry groaned miserably, touching the back of his head. A small smear of blood glittered on his fingertips and he frowned. The pain wasn’t that bad, but perhaps he had gone into shock. Harry didn’t consider it further as he looked around and realised that he was on the dreaded Third Floor.

Harry didn’t particularly care for rumours or the nonsense Headmaster Dumbledore said (and that man said a _lot_ of nonsense), but there definitely was something off about the abandoned floor. It seemed irresponsible that it could be accessed, especially by a first year on accident.

Harry meandered deep into the floor, head beginning to ache terribly, and came across a locked door. Harry wished it would open and a large unbolting sound signalled its release. Harry was finding it easier and easier to wish things to happen, especially now that he trained his magic daily.

Harry pushed the door open with a slightly trembling hand and promptly gasped. An enormous, three headed dog turned six horrible, yellowed eyes upon him. Harry guessed that the dog was perhaps three stories high, a monstrosity of foaming lips, growling teeth, horrible claws.

“Good boy?” Harry whispered helplessly, hoping that the dog was friendly.

It wasn’t.

The dog began to bark loudly then, snarling with massive canines. Harry felt his magic jump protectively and he thought _down boy!_

The dog immediately dropped. Harry stilled, looking at the dog in horror. Had he killed it?

“A very strange boy, indeed,” a deep voice sounded behind him. Harry slowly turned his head and looked up at the glowing eyes of Quirrell, realising with a start that it was Night-Quirrell, even though it was not yet ten in the morning. “How is it that I’m constantly finding you with dead animals?” The man asked, a smirk shadowing his lips.

“I didn’t kill it,” Harry protested in false bravado, a slight tremor giving him away.

Quirrell turned back to look at the dog, expression pleased. “You really haven’t gotten better at lying. It was a horrible mutt, anyway,” he muttered.

A large huffing sounded behind Harry’s back and he bristled as the wind of the dog’s breath washed over him, the stench hair-curling. Harry dared to look behind himself and was surprised to see that the dog was snoring, asleep rather than dead. Harry released a cathartic sigh of relief.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked curiously, quickly adding a “Sir” when Quirrell gave him a foul look.

“The better question would be – what are _you_ doing here?” Quirrell answered shortly.

Harry shrugged. “Dunno,” he answered distantly, watching the massive beast snore. “It that common?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at the shadow man.

Quirrell looked at him peculiarly then, eyes narrowing in thought.

“I haven’t seen much of the wizarding world,” Harry elaborated. “I’m not sure if three headed dogs are a thing or not.”

“It’s a Cerberus,” Quirrell answered after a moment. “And no, it’s not common.”

“Interesting,” Harry hummed. “Well, best be going then.” Harry began to walk away from the door briskly and stiffened as a hand grabbed the scuff of his robes, stopping him dead.

“I don’t think so,” Quirrell crooned in his ear.

Harry looked at him sharply, a twist in his gut warning him of danger. “Yes, Professor?” Harry asked innocently, wishing that Boring Harry would lose this man’s attentions. It didn’t happen.

“Stop trying to confound me,” Quirrell said, frowning. “It’s annoying and won’t work.”

Harry blinked at him owlishly. “Confound?” He repeated, voice lilting in question at the end.

Quirrell began to laugh. It wasn’t a nice sound. “You really don’t know, do you? Such as strange, strange little child,” he chuckled, the noise sending screams of warning down Harry’s spine. Harry kept very still under the man’s watchful gaze, feeling every bit like a mouse trapped by a cobra.

Then the moment passed and Quirrell let him go, hand gently smoothing the wrinkled creases in Harry’s tired robes. “You are going to come with me,” Quirrell stated suddenly. “I’m going down there.”

Harry looked to where the long, pale finger pointed and noticed a small trapdoor under the large paw of the Cerberus.

“No, thank you,” Harry responded firmly, wishing the man would listen for _once_.

“You do know that’s very similar to the Imperius Curse, yes?” Quirrell asked curiously, abruptly, eyes glittering mischievously. “What you’re doing right now. It’s not strong, just a compulsion at this stage, but it perhaps would work on your peers. Terribly immoral, it is, and I’m concerned about how you’re going to develop if you’re already casting such black magic at the tender age of eleven.” Contrary to his words, Quirrell looked secretly delighted.

Harry baulked in surprise. “Black magic?” He asked.

“Oh, stop with the naivety and repeating what I say,” Quirrell scowled, sneering down at the boy and making Harry curl in on himself at the scathing look. “You know perfectly well what you’re doing. It just doesn’t seem wrong to you, seeing as you’re the one benefiting. Luckily for the both of us, I don’t have the strongest moral compass either. I see the Sorting Hat was correct to place you in Slytherin, despite the whispers of your brethren.”

Harry’s eyebrows drew together at the man’s words. Though Quirrell tended to speak in riddles, half-truths and inside jokes in this form, Harry understood the man’s gist.

“I’m controlling people,” Harry stated at last, careful not to phrase the sentence as a question. “Even though I thought I was controlling myself.” It was a difficult concept to swallow but seemed logically sound after the first bite.

Quirrell looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye, burning irises aflame in the darkness. “You’re also very good at stalling. Go on,” Quirrell stated. Harry scowled, irritated that he’d been called out.

Harry stepped very uneasily past the demonic dog, wishing Very, _Very_ Hard that it wouldn’t wake up. The dog’s three out of sync snores deepened. Harry pushed against the paw and it didn’t budge. Harry looked at Quirrell for help, but the man crossed his arms in amusement and gestured at him to continue.

Harry wished that the dog’s paw would move. This came in the form of the paw lightening suddenly, toppling Harry over as he pushed against the fur and it slammed out of the way.

“Graceful,” Quirrell sighed, stepping over Harry’s body dismissively. Harry felt like vomiting suddenly, his mind churning as his head absorbed another bash on the stone floor. He lifted himself onto his knees and braced his hands against the cold stone floors, head throbbing. Harry wished desperately that his head would stop aching and it suddenly did, but Harry still felt lightheaded and ill. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly.

Quirrell paid him no mind, opening the hatch and peering down. He then turned hellfire eyes on Harry and smirked, jerking his head to the open portal. “Go on, then,” Quirrell teased darkly, eyes glittering. Harry wondered how they glowed when there was so little light in the room.

Harry sighed, walking forward without word. He seemed to have been roped into this adventure, whether or not he wanted to be, and would rather get it over with without much more fighting. Besides, Quirrell’s demeaning amusement over his feeble protests had become embarrassing.

Harry looked at the man as he stood before the hole in the ground, wondering what was going through that strange shadow head of his. From this close range, the turban seemed to float on his head, as if not actually attached to his skull and hovering with a small airgap over the man’s skull. Harry frowned at the thought, disturbed, and jumped through the hole.

Harry landed on something… Wet. No, not wet – squishy. He inhaled deeply, the room too dark to see anything beyond his hand, smelling the scent of musk and potting soil and – something vegetabe-ly. Quirrell looked down through the open portal, the only source of light spilling into the room, and smirked. Harry felt a burst of panic explode in his chest as the man _winked_ and shut the trapdoor with a bang.

Harry lay on the leafy floor in shock, body numbing. Quirrell, a _professor_ , had abandoned him under a Cerberus, magic already running low from forcing the dog to listen to him, and quite possibly with a massive concussion. Harry patted his robes and swore in despair as he realised that he’d forgotten his wand. While it was very limiting, the amount of magic needed to cast wand was minute compared to wishing Strange Things to happen.

Harry realised that panicking probably wouldn’t do him any good and he sighed, sitting up. The vegetable flooring seemed to move with him, wrapping a curious tendril around his wrist. Harry looked down, despite not being able to see in the pitch black darkness, and wondered what it was. It didn’t seem terribly malicious, but moving plants rarely weren’t.

Harry considered the possibility of what it could be as the tendril wrapped more firmly around his forearm, like a python drawn to heat.

Heat.

Harry blinked. _Devil’s Snare_ , his mind supplied helpfully. The plant didn’t particularly like light, but it did like heat. It would explain the sluggishness humidity of the dark room. Hermione had poured over a chapter of Devil’s Snare, reading aloud in a combination of horror and fascination. Harry had leant towards horror. But this Devil’s Snare was presumably huge and yet it didn’t hurt him. Harry relaxed into the soft bed of vines, wondering if the Devil’s Snare thought him boring too.

Harry knew that the Cerberus wouldn’t likely remain asleep for much longer; Harry had experimented on his dormmates with the sleeping wish while sneaking into take a shower and it rarely lasted past than twenty minutes. Harry sincerely doubted this wish would last nearly as long, considering the sheer size of the dog.

Harry felt himself relax completely, his mind humming distractedly. He probably still had a concussion; the easiest answer to stopping the pain was to stop _feeling_ the pain. Harry knew that his wishes had a limit, often flowing like water to the simplest solution rather than the best, but right now it was extremely inconvenient.

Harry squawked suddenly as he sunk through the vines, passing a thick wall of leaves and ropy vines. He was lowered softly to the floor by a vine around his torso and Harry blinked wearily, the sudden emergence of soft light too stimulating for his sensitive pupils. Harry looked up through squinted eyelids, watching the twisting and squirming vines form a ceiling above. The Devil’s Snare was _massive._ Harry shuddered and walked away quickly, deciding that any exit he took _definitely_ wouldn’t be back the way he came.

Harry cocked his head as he heard a faint fluttering noise. He walked towards a door, alarmed by a sound that reminded him of squeaking bats – but, rather, metallic bats. He opened the door carefully and gaped at the sight of hundreds of little keys. Harry saw a broom and, though he had discovered he did have a fair amount of natural talent on the charmed wood, he was in no mood to play games. Harry strolled across the room, ignoring the fluttering wings, and wished Very Hard that the door would open.

It seemed his magic unravelled whatever charm was sealing it closed, for the door blew outwards in an ear-splitting explosion of shattering wood. Harry winced, covering his face with his hands as the splinters sprayed his face. Harry sighed, stepping past the portal and wandered onto a giant chess board.

“Are you serious?” Harry asked the room angrily. “Does this just keep going?”

The chest pieces, easily three times his height, stood stock still. Harry could swear, though, that a knight looked at him for a moment, the movement just at the edge of his peripheral vision. Harry whipped his head to look at the carved marble, disturbed when he saw nothing suspicious. Either his concussion was playing tricks on his mind or this was a haunted chessboard. Both seemed equally plausible and ominous.

“I don’t like chess. Could I just, like, pick a side?” Harry asked the pieces impatiently, crossing his arms.

It was if he had spoken the magic words, for the pieces leapt into place, rearranging themselves on the board. A single piece was missing and Harry rolled his eyes as the chess pieces looked at him expectantly.

“I nominate the broken pawn to be me; it’s closest to my height,” Harry stated irritably, crossing his arms. There was _no way_ he was getting on that chess board.

It seemed like the chess pieces would fight, for a moment. But then they shuddered as Harry stomped his foot (admittedly a little childishly) as he wished Very Hard that _everyone would just listen to him_ and the broken pawn stumbled up, crossing the board to take its place.

“I chose Black. Go,” Harry demanded, waving his hand imperiously as he feigned authority. Harry wasn’t sure where this newfound backbone was coming from, but he was so tired, so angry at Quirrell, and his head was beginning to _hurt_ again. This wasn’t exactly his version of a good day and Harry snarled as the chess pieces failed to move. “I said _go!”_

The chess pieces leapt into action, moving faster than any game of chess he had ever seen. The pieces clearly knew the game better than most wizards, zipping through the actions as they smashed, flailed, and made an overall mess of the board.

Harry was relieved to note that Black was winning, seeing as he didn’t know what would happen if White won. At last, the White King was checkmated – almost too quickly for Harry to catch on to what was happening. The Black Queen smirked then, taking no prisoners, and decapitated the White King with a vicious flourish of her marble sword. Harry shuddered, carefully sidestepping the chunks of marble on the board as the chess pieces became lifeless once more.

Harry walked into a horribly odorous room on the other side of the chessboard, eyes watering in pain as the stench prickled his eyes. A horrible beast, nearly as tall as the Cerberus but more humanoid shaped, leered over him.

“Fuck off!” Harry roared as the beast raised a spiked club curiously. Harry felt a touch of embarrassment as he swore, unused to the words on his tongue, but it seemed to work. The troll, for that was all Harry could imagine it was, stumbled back.

“Move! Get out of the way!” Harry continued, approaching the troll. His magic reached up and nipped at the troll’s heels, voice laced with compulsion (as Quirrell had called it), and he felt overwhelming relief when the creature moaned miserably and backed up as Harry continued to yell at him and approach with his arms flailing. If the troll called his bluff, Harry had no doubt that he would be mincemeat in an instant.

Once he had edged around the beast, Harry slipped through yet another door. He pressed his head against the cool wood, not wanting to turn around and see what lay behind him. Harry turned anyway, though, and groaned.

Harry read a riddle on a slip of parchment with nausea, realising that he had no way of answering it. Hermione, perhaps. Quirrell, definitely. But Harry was more an odd combination of brutal force and sneakiness, not this straightforward logic and upfront cleverness. Harry knew he often went about things the wrong way, not this way. He wondered how on earth he could turn back now, after how far he’d come.

“Giving up now? For shame,” A voice purred into the room, the flames flickering at the emerging presence of another magical being.

Harry turned on his heel quickly and looked at Quirrell in surprise. “Oh, there you are,” Harry chirped. “Solve this for me?” Harry requested politely, raising the parchment up to the shadow man. While he very much wanted to throw a tantrum and curse the man to hell and high water, Harry knew the only way he was getting through this maze was with the man’s help. Harry felt strangely compelled to keep going, almost taking a personal stake in seeing this over with.

The man made no attempt to take the scrap of paper, instead watching Harry. “No, you do it,” Quirrell answered dismissively.

“I can’t,” Harry answered, shrugging as he pulled the scrap of parchment over and read it once more. “I know when I’ve been beat,” Harry stated, not upset and giving up with ease.

Quirrell snatched the paper from his hands, scowling bitterly. “Not so strange after all,” he hissed. “Just _stupid_.”

Harry nearly laughed at the man’s bitter tone, not taking an ounce of offence. Harry settled for a secret smile; who was the stupid one when he duped the professor into finding the answer for him? Harry knew that he wouldn’t be able to find the riddle’s meaning, but Quirrell could and Harry would take advantage of _all_ of his resources.

“Drink this one,” Quirrell finally said as he snatched a crystal vial off the table. “And don’t look so smug.”

Harry wiped the smile off his face quickly as he looked down at the vialed potion shoved into his hands and then back up at the professor.

“Don’t you think if I was trying to kill you that I’d have done it already?” Quirrell asked exasperatedly, looking to be running at the end of his rope.

“That sounds exactly like something someone would say if they were trying to kill somebody,” Harry answered a little petulantly. He downed the vial anyway.

Nothing happened. That is, until Quirrell pushed him through the purple flames licking up the walls of the room. Harry hissed in surprise, flinching as he stumbled through and quickly opened another door to escape the heatless flames. Harry touched his clothes wondrously, blinking as he realised he was unharmed.

Quirrell walked through the flames and now open doorway with ease, also unhurt, and Harry wondered if the flames were dangerous at all. Perhaps he should have tried running through first.

It seemed that they had reached the end of the maze, for there were no more doors. A large mirror stood in the middle of the room, odd characters scrawled into its majestic, gold frame. Harry felt a strange pitting in his stomach as he looked at the mirror, feeling like this was the most dangerous challenge of them all.

“Well, at least you do have enough self-preservation to stay back,” Quirrell remarked snarkily, stalking up to the mirror. Quirrell paced in front of the mirror, snarling at what Harry presumed to be his reflection. Harry walked up to the mirror, curious as to what Quirrell saw in the mercurial glass. Harry felt himself pale instantly at the sight staring back at him.

It was as if the books he had read about his parents, the photos he had seen, had come to life. His mother, a beautiful vision of red hair and charming dimples stared back. A man that looked remarkably like himself, when he was Regular Harry, glowed happily as he looked down, not noticing Harry. They sat on the floor of a nursery, Harry the age of a toddler at best and leaning over their shoulder in excitement. The happy trio played with a little child who lay on its back on the nursery floor, perhaps only a few months old, laughing noiselessly as the baby gurgled and waved its chubby arms.

A family.

Harry felt ice explode in his stomach. He couldn’t watch it anymore.

Harry turned away quickly, blinking rapidly to scare away the tears filling his eyes.

“What do you see, Harry?” Quirrell murmured, suddenly by his side. Harry looked up at him in surprise, having forgotten the shadow man was there too.

“Something I can’t have,” Harry answered honestly, looking up at the man. “Is that what it does?”

Quirrell looked at him thoughtfully. “Not necessarily, but you are close,” the man stated, turning back to the mirror. The man didn’t have a hint of empathy in his tone. Harry was glad.

“Who are you?” Harry asked suddenly, feeling that it was time.

Quirrell turned back to him, hooded eyes alight in amusement. “Voldemort,” he answered with gusto, lips curling into smirk. The man looked very pleased to be announcing his dark secret.

“I would say it’s nice to meet you, but it’s really not, and I have met you before,” Harry answered simply, turning back to the mirror and he was suddenly able to handle the scene in the reflection a little better.

“What?” Quirrell – Voldemort – snarled. “I’ve been a spectre, a ghost of a man for nearly a _decade_ , and all you say is _that?_ ” He roared.

Harry looked up at the man, unintimidated. “That is quite an achievement,” Harry coaxed, curious. “How did you do it?”

Voldemort reared back, eyes flickering like a caged animal. He began to unravel the turban and Harry felt his lips twist in disgust.

“Oh, no, please don’t,” Harry asked, wrinkling his nose.

Voldemort glared at him. “You’re an impertinent little shit, you know that?” He scowled, not slowing down.

Harry hummed uncommittedly, hairs rising on his arms as the turban unravelled further. “Seriously, don’t,” Harry demanded suddenly, the air in the room shifting under his command.

Voldemort shaped Quirrell’s face into a delighted, dark smile. The final piece of fabric fell away and Harry stepped back, alarmed, as the man turned.

A horrible, snake-like slitted face leered back at him.

“Oh, gross,” Harry gagged before he leant over and vomited.

Had he seen Voldemort’s expression, Harry might have laughed. But he was too busy trying to not lose the rest of his stomach through his mouth.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry wheezed as he held his chest, still doubled over. “Concussion and all that. And your magic tastes _really_ bad.”

“Tastes?” Voldemort – the real Voldemort – questioned.

“Like too much garlic, skunk and slime,” Harry agreed, shuddering. He slowly stood back up, arms still wrapped around his abdomen.

Voldemort looked at him irritably then. “This is _not_ how this was supposed to happen,” the face told him. “Then again, nothing seems to go right around you. You’re an omen of chaos.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant, but he rolled his eyes anyway because it sounded too serious and poetic to really mean anything substantial. Harry turned to the mirror to look away from that horrible, gooey face and wished he could find what Voldemort wanted, mostly because he wanted to have what Voldemort couldn’t. He didn’t wish Very Hard, so he was surprised to feel the weight of a stone drop in his trouser pocket.

Harry reached his hand down into his pocket and pulled a bizarre, glowing rock. It looked like a giant crystal and yet had none of its weight; the large object warmed his hand.

“How did you –” Voldemort began in a roar, but was cut off abruptly as Harry held the stone out to the two-faced monster.

“Here,” Harry stated.

Voldemort looked at him, eyes narrowing as he considered the angles Harry might be playing.

“You seem pretty upset that I have the rock, so you can hold it too,” Harry said dryly.

“That’s the Philosopher’s Stone,” Voldemort seethed, seemingly irritated that Harry wasn’t fighting to keep it. Voldemort seemed like a very dramatic person; perhaps he didn’t want it without blowing Harry up first.

“Then maybe we should give it back to him,” Harry answered, frowning as he lowered his hand. Voldemort clearly hadn’t expected Harry to say that and he looked completely affronted, as if he couldn’t tell if Harry was joking or not. Harry wasn’t.

“Fine!” The man snarled, Quirrell’s body arching backwards awkwardly as Voldemort lunged at Harry. Harry squawked in horror and let go of the tone, dropping it into the twisting hand before it could touch him.

Voldemort smirked then, leaning over Harry’s sick and pressing his slit nose close to the boy’s small face.

“You’re a mess, Harry Potter,” the creature drawled, for it wasn’t a man.

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Harry said suddenly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could filter his mind.

Voldemort’s head cocked, an unnatural angle that was surely cracking Quirrell’s spinal column, and smirked devilishly as he pulled back. His eyes looked at the stone, victory shining in his hellfire eyes. Then Voldemort retreated, Quirrell’s hands slowly wrapping his head once more in the smelly turban. Quirrell turned around then, Voldemort still controlling the man’s body with ease.

“Come now, Harry,” Voldemort tutted as he began to walk back to the flames. “You’re awfully late for class. Thirty points from Slytherin.”

Harry felt like he should argue, but the thought of protesting thirty lost house points seemed like nit-picking when faced with a mass murderer.

Harry trotted behind Quirrell as he continued forward, frowning at the bloody carcass of the troll as they strolled by the horrible smelling room. They finally stood underneath the Devil’s Snare and Voldemort raised a wand, a bright, burning light exploding from the tip of his wand. The Snare could almost be heard squealing in pain as it retreated rapidly, curling away from the beam of light. Voldemort grabbed Harry’s forearm, still wrapped in heavy winter robes despite the heat of the room, and rose weightlessly into the air.

“You can fly?” Harry asked suddenly, looking at the floor fall away and blinking in surprise. Voldemort didn’t answer. “That’s pretty cool, actually,” Harry continued, words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Will you teach me how?”

Voldemort didn’t look back at him, but the hand on his arm tightened painfully as nails dug through thick wool, and Harry’s mouth closed with an audible _click_.

The duo floated up through the trapdoor harmlessly, past the sleeping dog as a harp played loudly, and Voldemort pulled Harry to the entrance door of the Third Floor Corridor.

“Why did you give me the stone?” Voldemort asked suddenly, turning heathen eyes on Harry.

“I wanted to know what you’d do,” Harry answered with a shrug, studying the man’s reaction.

“Do you live your life based purely on curiosity?” Voldemort pressed, his fingers still digging painfully into Harry’s arm, the blunt nails indenting his skin even through the layers of wool.

“Of course. Don’t you?” Harry replied, genuinely curious. “It seems like a painfully dull life to not experiment a little.”

“Indeed,” Voldemort stated, looking bored by his answer. Harry watched the man turn and step onto a swinging staircase without looking first, the stairwell empty of all students as it led him away from Harry and the Third Floor landing.

“Are you leaving?” Harry asked perhaps a little rhetorically as the stairway took the puppet man away.

“Yes,” Voldemort answered bluntly, leaning Quirrell’s hip against the stairway banister. “Haven’t you heard? The Defence post is cursed.” Voldemort smiled then, all sharp teeth and white lips, and Harry sighed as he felt another inside joke wash over his head.

“’Kay,” Harry called out. “Let me know how it goes with the rock.”

Voldemort had swung too far away for Harry to study his expression, but the man’s cackle of laughter rang into the stairwell and chilled Harry’s bones.

* * *

**End Act I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get a little annoyed and impatient at the idea of re-writing Harry's entire schooling experience so, fair warning, the next chapter will gloss over a couple years as needed. The next chapter will be posted sometime next week, most likely the weekend, when I get settled back into a routine.


	6. Writ in Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry discovers he has a rare skill to add to his resume and experiments with canning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels disturbingly like a filler to me mostly because Voldemort's not really in it and I'm antsy to get there (soon, I promise!). But I enjoyed writing it anyway and let me know what you think :)

The school year after Voldemort’s departure continued on rather boringly. Harry had been called by memo into the Headmaster’s office after being treated for his head wounds and was told Very Seriously that he had done a Bad Thing by letting Voldemort get away with the Philosopher’s Stone.

Harry had asked if it was common to expect children to stop immortal Dark Lords. He hadn’t meant it petulantly nor rudely, but rather curiously. Still, Dumbledore appeared to take offence. Well, by ‘take offence’, Harry meant that the old man sucked a little harder on his lemon drop than necessary.

Even after the rather poor meeting, Dumbledore gave Harry an invisibility cloak for Christmas. It was Harry’s first real gift (though he did receive a photo album of his parents from the large, friendly groundskeeper, which he appreciated but wasn’t sure what to do with) and he recognised the writing from Dumbledore’s first missive. Harry wasn’t sure if it was some kind of joke or not, seeing as he was already Not Seen enough as it was, but Harry liked the gift anyway. He used it for everything but didn’t take it to class lest it was confiscated. Harry liked sitting next to his peers at the Slytherin table and making food disappear.

It was his only entertainment after Voldemort left, after all.

A new Defence teacher was nominated after Quirrell was considered long gone; he was a bumbling, portly sort of fellow that went missing too at the end of the school year. Harry discovered that there _was_ a curse on the Defence position and wondered why that amused Voldemort so much. Perhaps it was because he was immortal. Or perhaps because the old man had a sick sense of humour.

Harry could appreciate that.

At the end of the year, Harry asked Dumbledore Very Politely if he could stay in the castle. He even offered to pay boarding fees _and_ clean, as he was very good at dusting and moping and all sorts of domestic chores.

He was told no. Without a reason nor explanation provided; just No. The word rang in his head for an entire summer.

Harry wouldn’t have returned the Dursley household but he got the niggling feeling like someone was following him and Harry didn’t want that kind of attention. Going back to the Dursleys after being at Hogwarts left a bad taste in Harry’s mouth. Especially since he hadn’t told them he was leaving. Sure, the revolting family probably wouldn’t have noticed at first, but when the meals weren’t cooked and the dust piled, even the intellectually-challenged Dursleys would eventually have figured out that Harry was gone. Not that they remembered he was there most of the time, but still.

As expected, Aunt Petunia was furious to see him and boxed him behind the ears. Uncle Vernon did the same. Harry spent a week locked in the cupboard under the stairs (pleased that he had remembered to bring food home from Hogwarts and wishing his waste away with a thought) until Aunt Petunia realised that his school might find out and he was quickly moved up to Dudley’s playroom. Harry didn’t like the large space but kept it tidy and clean anyway.

Harry was always ready to leave just in case, bag packed and clothes washed, perched on the edge of his bed as he waited for a letter from Dumbledore saying some version of: _My mistake, young Harry, you actually can stay at Hogwarts. Professor Snape will be there in the morning to collect you._

The letter did not come.

Instead, an elf came and actually tried to keep Harry away from Hogwarts. That really pissed Harry off. Harry wished Very Hard that the elf forgot Harry’s existence (and why he was sure that Harry wasn’t allowed to return) and the elf left him alone after that.

The following year, Harry took advantage of his cloak even more. He heard whispers in the walls, students were petrified, and a girl with a diary seemed to be behind it all. It was all very interesting.

It was during this weird time in which Harry discovered that he was even _more_ odd amongst the witches and wizards than he originally thought.

“Do you hear that?” Harry asked, his head raising from its bowed position over a book. He turned his left ear to a nearby wall in the library, focusing on the sound.

_‘Kill… Kill… Kill…’_

_Well, that’s alarming,_ Harry thought to himself.

“Hear what?” Hermione asked, not looking up from her book and slowly turning a page.

“The voice in the wall repeating the word ‘kill’,” Harry answered bluntly, watching the wall with narrowed eyes.

Hermione looked up at Harry sharply. “Come again?” She asked, surprised.

“I’ve been hearing faint whispers all week since Mrs. Norris turned into wood, but this is the first time I could actually make out a word,” Harry replied with a shrug, returning to his reading as the voice had clearly passed them by.

“That’s… Not good, Harry,” Hermione emphasised. “Even in the wizarding world, it’s not normal to hear voices.”

“Well, if it helps, I once had a chat with a snake at the zoo when I was forgotten by the teachers and while it didn’t sound nearly as angry as this one, I’d bet my wand that the thing in the walls is snake-like,” Harry considered aloud, brow creased in thought. “And most likely very big.”

“What?” Hermione yelped. A nearby student glared at Hermione disapprovingly and she blushed, crouching her shoulders close to the table as she pressed her face in Harry’s personal space. “You can talk to _snakes_?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, it was a bit weird but overall okay. Makes you wonder if other animals can talk too and we just don’t understand their language, or if snakes are particularly smart. If all animals have the capacity to talk and we just can’t understand it, I’d say that it’s pretty messed up that we’re all eating meat dishes; kind of like cannibalism. Maybe I should tell someone,” Harry murmured, lacing his fingers and resting them on his stomach as he leaned back.

“No,” Hermione hissed over the table, eyes wide in panic. “Do _not_ do that, Harry! Wizards know about Parseltongue, the snake language, and it’s considered _very dark_. God knows what’ll happen to you if you tell anyone.”

When Harry rolled his eyes at her theatrics, Hermione wrung her wrists. “Parseltongue is rumoured to be descended from Slytherin himself,” Hermione continued slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dim-witted child. “It seems to be a purely hereditary gene, so only descendants of Slytherin are Parselmouths. That would make you an… Heir of Slytherin,” Hermione whispered so quietly that she could barely be heard even in the near stifling silence of the library.

Harry scoffed. “I’ve gone back nearly twenty generations in my lineage on the Potter side and about five generations back on my mother’s muggle side and I can assure you that, while there is some questionable history regarding wizards and magical creatures, I am _not_ a descendant of Slytherin. Is that why wizards are scared of Parseltongue? Because an ancient bigot once spoke it?” Harry asked, unimpressed.

Hermione stared at Harry for a long moment, scrunching her nose in what Harry assumed was annoyance that he wasn’t taking her Seriously Enough. Hermione likes to be taken Seriously.

“Just… Don’t tell anyone,” Hermione said at long last, lips pursing. Harry shrugged and went back to his reading.

Hermione discovered the beast was a basilisk within the week, but she was petrified before she could tell anyone besides Harry. Harry’s first instinct was to track the slithering thing down and tell it to _stop_ , but without the drama of a snake in the walls, he feared the school year would be unbearably boring. So Harry decided to follow the whispering voice along the walls while under his cloak, wondering what would happen if he was petrified under the invisible fabric. How long would it take for someone to find him? Days, months, years? Harry figured he’d wait and see.

Besides, if a twelve-year-old muggleborn could figure it out, Harry figured the adults could (or had).

Harry noticed as well that there seemed to be a fair amount of activity in the abandoned second-floor girls bathroom as a ghost was making a hell of a racket, flooding pipes and screaming her head off. Harry went to investigate while under his cloak and jumped as he noticed a small, redheaded girl speaking to the bathroom taps as the schoolgirl ghost screeched and launched herself into a nearby toilet.

‘ _Open,_ ’ the redhead said in that odd snake language.

The bathroom vanity opened in an impressive display of runic magic, the large column of porcelain creaking open to reveal a black pit in the floor. She then disappeared down the hole and Harry blinked in surprise as the entrance closed behind her.

It was all very interesting and ominous.

This went on for some time, with Harry following the girl around while under his cloak. She appeared to be a normal, excitable first year for the most part, but sometimes she would change rather dramatically and walk the halls with a pale, blank expression. _As if possessed_ , Harry mused.

At one point during dinner, the small red-headed girl jumped into the secret lair and a tall, handsome boy walked out, brushing himself off and grinning. He then strode out of the bathroom, disappearing from the castle for good (and Harry had checked). Harry had watched all of this from under his cloak while hiding in the second-floor girl’s bathroom, slowly eating an orange and wondering what that was all about. Wondering if the little girl would come back out. She didn’t.

After that, the excitement stopped.

Harry briefly considered continuing the rein of the basilisk, especially seeing as he could understand the snake’s strange language, but it seemed like it would take a lot of effort and Harry didn’t want anyone (else?) to die. It didn’t help either that Harry had loads of school work. And he spent a _lot_ of his time avoiding the newest Defence teacher, who was all shiny and grinny and overall unbearable.

Thankfully, he too met a gruesome end while trying to Obliviate a frantic Ronald Weasley, who turned out to be the little girl’s brother. Harry thought it rather said a lot when even a Dark Lord found Obliviating children distasteful but the popular, famous Defence professor did it for a living.

At the end of the day, the entire situation ended in a rather PG manner when the petrified were revived, which surprised Harry seeing as there was a massive basilisk on the loose in a castle of defenceless children. Well. Minus the disappearance (and most likely murder) of the redheaded girl. The mystery of Ginny Weasley became something of a rumour, then story, then legend, all within the remaining four months of school.

Harry felt a bad feeling curling in his stomach when he thought of Ginny Weasley, wondering if there was something that he could have done. But he hadn’t and he decided he would just have to live with that.

Before Harry knew it, the school year had ended. He was once again foisted upon the Dursleys and the Dursleys upon him, which really annoyed Harry beyond reason.

Then, a couple weeks before school began, came a new development. A rather horrific looking ghost-like creature in worn black robes showed up while Harry was walking back to the Dursley house (he refused to call it Home) with groceries and tried to kiss him.

Harry did not take kindly to that.

Harry flung a jar of pickles at the creature, not even sure of what he was wishing but feeling the magic leaving his body nonetheless. The creature didn’t bother moving out of the way of the pickle jar, clearly expecting the lobbed object to fly through its frame harmlessly. Instead, the creature screamed a horrible wailing noise before that was abruptly cut off when the pickle jar flew through its ethereal robes and appeared to suck it into the glass container. The pickle jar landed harmlessly on a patch of grass next to the sidewalk. 

Harry stared dumbly at the pickle jar laying innocently on the grass and watched with wide eyes as a tiny version of the demonic creature pushed a pickle out of the way and banged on the glass wall of the jar. It seemed like the pickle vinegar wasn’t drowning it and Harry picked up the jar to inspect the captured creature with fascination.

Harry left the jar on his dresser for the remainder of the summer. The creature seemed very agitated by the entire situation, pressing its tiny, rotting hands against the glass and staring at him meaningfully (at least, Harry assumed that was what it was doing as he couldn’t see its face) and occasionally rearranging pickles to make more room for itself.

Harry took the creature to Hogwarts with him, planning to deposit it down the secret rabbit hole in the second-floor bathroom; he assumed the chamber would be able to hold it seeing as it had successfully held a basilisk for about a thousand years before Ginny Weasley got involved.

Harry did consider that maybe he should tell a professor, but Hogwarts had already chewed through three professors in his two year tutorage, kept a hell hound behind an easily accessible door (not to mention the various assorted atrocities behind that dog), accidentally hired a Dark Lord, and saw through a rather terrifying basilisk scare in which the adults were of no help at all. Harry felt that the matter would be safer in his own hands (literally). 

When Harry boarded the train, Hermione found him and dragged him to a compartment with an older man resting in it. The girl nattered at him for a few hours about the books she had read over the summer; Harry was a little bitter that he hadn’t gotten a chance to buy new texts but hearing her near-eidetic recollection soothed that irritation.

The train then abruptly stopped and filled with cold, cruel intentions. Harry frowned; he knew this feeling.

Ignoring the beginnings of flashes of Bastet’s glassy eyes filling his mind and a high-pitched woman’s scream, Harry pulled out his jar of pickled creepy. When a decaying hand opened the frosty door to their carriage compartment, Harry pointedly shook the jar towards the beast, the little dementor swirling angrily at the bottom in the vinegar and pickle residue.

“Do you want this to be you?” Harry asked the creature with a raised eyebrow, doing his best impression of McGonagall’s stern voice. “Because I think he wants a friend, facehugger.”

The creature stopped and stared at the glass jar for a moment but then decided that it wasn’t intimidated and continued its approach. Harry felt a little dumb when the creature called his bluff, realising there wasn’t much else he could do than throw the pickle jar again and he wasn’t sure if that would work or release another face-sucker into their cramped compartment.

The napping man then leapt to his feet and released an amazing display of magic from his wand, a plume of vapours quickly materialising into a wolf and chasing the demonic creature out of sight. He then rounded on Harry.

“How in Merlin’s name did you manage to jar a _dementor_?” The man asked while pushing large chunks of Toblerone chocolate into Harry and Hermione’s hands.

“By asking it nicely,” Harry answered dismissively before nibbling on the large triangle of chocolate with satisfaction. So far, none of the professors had listened to the fact that Harry could do wandless magic, despite only needing to use their eyes, and he didn’t imagine that this adult would be the first to start.

After that, the man introduced himself as Professor Remus Lupin, the new professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Both Hermione and Harry apologised to the man for his impending doom. Professor Lupin also confiscated Harry’s jarred Dementor, which was a bit of a shame as Harry planned on keeping it on his dresser. Or seeing how long it would last in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry thought it an interesting experiment to see if a dementor and basilisk could cohabitate or if they would try to kill one another and, in that case, who would win?

Either way, Harry had plans.

Harry was somewhat mollified when he discovered that Hogwarts was swarming with dementors, who were very insistent in trying to get Harry’s attentions. But overexposure to their creepy magic soon wore the fright thin and he merely wished Very Hard that they would leave him alone and, for the most part, that worked. Occasionally, one would try to get close and Harry would shake his head, _Oh no you don’t_ , while wishing Very Hard that it would go bother somebody else and the monster would then shudder before floating away. Why everyone was so terrified of these angsty-floaty-things, Harry wasn’t sure.

The highlight of the term start turned out to be Professor Lupin’s intensive DADA course in which he did his best to catch his students up to a reasonable stage of their education. Harry even got to face a boggart, which Professor Lupin had tried to prevent at first for some reason or another, and Harry was treated to a vision of his glasses smashed on the floor. Harry converted the glasses into a pirouetting spider, which amused everyone with the exception of Ron Weasley, who screamed and the boggart turned on him instead.

Professor Lupin held Harry back and appeared to believe that Harry feared the smashed glasses because they were a memento from his father. Harry honestly didn’t know that fact, but he just had to smile and nod while Professor Lupin did the talking.

The professor also noticed the dementors’ affinity for Harry (dismissing the fact that the dementors would often float away as if pushed by a compulsion spell like it were mere happenstance) and taught him a cool Strange Thing in which a large, floating jellyfish blossomed out of his wand and swirled lazily about them, composed entirely of thoughts of Bastet’s warm purrs. Professor Lupin commented that most patronuses were a bit faster than his, seeing as dementors called for urgent action, but Harry hadn’t the heart to tell him that he really didn’t need one.

Harry then realised after a few months that Professor Lupin was really a man-dog (and the irony of his surname was not lost on Harry; names in the wizarding world really were on the nose, sometimes), but he didn’t tell him that he knew.

Harry also discovered within the first few weeks that he was being tracked by an enormous dog (thankfully with just the one head), which he was sure was really a dog-man; this was another fascinating turn of events. He also didn’t tell the dog-man that he knew. Instead of allowing the dog-man to track him for the rest of the school year, Harry merely pulled the stalking dog into the school with him by wishing Very Hard and made it sleep at the foot of his bed.

Oh, yes – Harry was caught in his cupboard very early on in third year and was told that he could either sleep in the dorms or sleep at the Dursleys’ (implication being that he would be expelled, he assumed, as it seemed awfully inconvenient to floo travel to school each day). Harry chose to sleep in the dorms, as not seeing the Dursleys’ faces on a daily basis was reward enough for having to live with his dormmates. But apparently the dog was a Grim and this happened to keep most of his dormmates away.

In fact, they took to sleeping in the Common Rooms, even the ‘beauty-sleeper’ Draco Malfoy, who eventually moved into Professor Snape’s rooms and Harry learned the older man was Malfoy’s godfather; that certainly explained the favouritism.

Again, Harry could not decipher for the life of him why wizards were scared of the dog. Surely if the Grim were really an omen of death, the entirety of the school would have dropped dead by now. Wizarding kind seemed very sensitive about dark-this and dark-that.

The Grim followed Harry everywhere, including class for a few days. Harry knows that he will fondly recall Trelawney’s reaction for the rest of his life.

_“I see a Grim in your cup, dear child!” The bizarre woman whispered reverently, her hissing voice disturbing the thick incense permeating the air as she held Harry’s empty teacup close to her coke-bottle lenses._

_“Oh, you mean this one?” Harry asked, pulling up the table cloth and revealing his Grim laying under the table._

_Trelawney had screamed and tripped backwards, to the shock of the other students. Lavender and Parvati had even cried._

_“You would have thought she’d seen that coming,” Harry told the Grim slyly, the dog-man answering with that odd dog-laugh he did sometimes. Harry got in a lot of trouble afterwards and was made to leave the Grim at the dorms. Harry felt it was worth it._

All in all, it worked out pretty well for Harry.

Sure, at first a few teachers tried to tell him that dogs weren’t allowed. The man who was a dog _really_ didn’t like the dog who was a man and even tried to take him away (which ended up with the man-dog confounded and awakening in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, unsure as to how he got there, which stopped his intrusive behaviour). Even though Harry had done it to protect the Grim, the dog was very moody about the whole thing and pointedly ignored Harry for most of the day.

Just when the campaign to remove the Grim gained some traction, Harry pointed out Very Firmly that Ronald Weasley had a rat, Hermione had a kneazle, Draco Malfoy had a _falcon_ – and that was just in his year. Either all the contraband pets had to go or _none_ had to go. That seemed to shut the professors up pretty quickly.

Harry thought it had much to do with Malfoy’s infamous Really Mean Dad on the Board of Directors.

It turned out that Albert, which was what Harry named the dog despite its whines and eyerolls, took a particular disliking to Ron Weasley’s rat and snapped its neck. After that, the rat turned into a man with a rather horrible compound fracture (his spine was largely outside of his body) and Albert turned into a man. There was a fair bit of press, a court trial regarding custody, and much talk about a missing pinky.

Harry ignored most of it and was only affected when the dementors were made to leave. He was a bit annoyed that he didn’t get the chance to capture another one. But it appeared that wish was a one-off as replicating the pickling didn’t work again, no matter how many containers he threw at the creatures. And that was the one downside of Harry’s wishes; he very rarely could make them do precisely what he wanted unless it was small enough to be directional. Sure, he could use his wand. But Harry was fairly sure there wasn’t a Latin phrase for canning a dementor.

Albert, who was really named Sirius, told Harry he could live with him. Sirius (who told Harry to stop calling him Albert or he’d turn Harry’s hair pink) turned out to be a really Cool Guy. He hung out, frequently got drunk, started bar fights, and overall was totally insane.

Harry liked that about Sirius.

Harry liked his new house, too. He laughed as Sirius painted a moustache and beard on his mother’s portrait as she slept and the woman was so horrified that she ran out of her frame every time someone walked by. Harry also wished Very Hard that every time she spoke it would come out as Pig-Latin, a trick which delighted Sirius to the point of hysteria, and after that Madame Black remained both silent and hidden from the pair.

Professor Lupin even came to live with them (apparently he’d forgiven Sirius for whatever the dog-man did) during the summer holiday. Harry was pretty sure that the two were dating, which certainly wouldn’t bother Harry but even basic friendship felt like a mystery for the boy so he didn’t dare assume. Though, when the two pecked one another on the lips before breakfast halfway through the summer break, he felt like that was some kind of evidence or, perhaps, like the pair were trying to make a point. Or something. Maybe.

Harry doesn’t know much about friendship and love, though he thinks that he feels both for the pair. So he doesn’t comment other than to smile disarmingly, because that always seems to work on the dog-man and man-dog.

But Harry put his foot down when Dumbledore wanted a whole bunch of people to live with them too.

Harry told him No.

Harry doesn’t actually care, but he couldn’t give up the opportunity to rub that one in the old man’s face. Harry doesn’t exactly _dislike_ Dumbledore.

That would require caring, which Harry isn’t sure he really does when it comes to the headmaster.

But Harry found out that Dumbledore was the reason he was living with the Dursleys and a piece of the puzzle as to why Sirius never received a trial. Harry point blank refused, too, when the old man tried to appeal to his humanity by letting Harry know that the Dursleys would most likely be murdered without his presence feeding the “Blood Wards”.

Harry had then laughed and laughed and _laughed_. Dumbledore didn’t like that.

It was nearly the start of fourth year when Voldemort started to stir once more. Harry was initially surprised that it took so long, but he could see why. The horrible, vomit-inducing two-faced snake-man appeared to have absorbed both Quirrell’s body and the dark featured, handsome boy who ate Ginny Weasley. He looked less like a gross ghoul and was actually quite attractive. He went by a new name now, too. Tom Riddle. Harry would have commented on the surprisingly plebeian moniker but that felt rather like throwing stones in a glass house.

Harry knew it wasn’t long until Voldemort’s name started stirring across Britain, but he didn’t tell anyone what he knew. It seemed like giving up the game too soon. Besides, Harry had the feeling that Dumbledore knew much more than he was letting on and figured the old man would eventually sort it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But really, who would win in a fight: dementor or basilisk? 
> 
> Also, I think I need to update the tags to add Minor Sirius Black/Remus Lupin because that turn was a surprise even for me.


	7. Meduza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry discovers a newfound dislike of Seekers and becomes an unwilling messenger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're beginning a three chapter descent into moody teenage Harry because moody-Harry is basically a landmark of the books and I couldn't help but make this pit stop ;) Also, no matter what anyone tells you, there are three surefire things in this world: everyone poops, dinosaurs are awesome, and teenagers be angsty.

Harry was a bit peeved to discover that Remus, the man-dog, had been fired and wasn’t allowed to return to Hogwarts to teach. And it had something to do with being a man-dog (or ‘werewolf’, as Remus stressed upon many an occasion; like Harry cared).  

Harry scoffed when he found out. As if Dumbledore hadn’t known Quirrell was a Dark Lord or that the shiny moron in second year (whom Harry had never bothered to learn his name) wasn’t a backstabbing, violent liar. Remus had been the only decent teacher (other than Quirrell’s replacement, who was just okay) they had for Defence so Harry was a little annoyed by that fact.

Harry had the distinct impression as well that the Defence curse would be removed if a teacher made it through to a second year. He theorised that Dumbledore liked the curse, if only to give him a reason to rotate teachers on an annual basis for his own amusement.

After a slightly watery goodbye from his new guardians (and Harry enjoying the novelty of having guardians who cared enough to cry when they wouldn’t see him for a few months), Harry sat on the train to Hogwarts, minding his own business as the wheels clattered and the steam engine whistled. Hermione had found him early on and sat with him. The girl apparently never made friends in her own house. The nice thing about Hermione, however, was that he could ignore her as much as he wanted and she never got offended as long as he helped her with wandless magic. Hermione reminded him of a wart that he tried to burn off at first and it kept regrowing to the point that he decided it was time to live with it.

Hermione actually wasn’t anything like a wart, honestly. Harry found himself really liking her, but he was used to things of his being taken away and broken and he didn’t particularly feel like getting attached. But apparently his feelings didn’t care what his brain thought and he liked her anyway.

Harry found out very early on that he couldn’t like a girl like _that._ Perhaps he should have noticed in first year, when he mooned over Damon despite keeping his distance. Or second year, when that boy walked through the hole in the ground and Harry couldn’t stop thinking about him. Harry even felt a little odd around Sirius at first, but finding out the man was his godfather and now technically his adopted father immediately wiped _that_ slate clean.

It wasn’t anything rude, but Harry felt a flutter in his stomach and he’d become even more withdrawn – which was surprisingly possible even though he basically already lived as a shadow. He just seemed to have a thing for tall, dark featured and possibly crazy. Harry didn’t like this discovery _at all_.

Time on the train flew by neatly and then Harry was watching the odd leather horses pulling the carriages and holding an interesting conversation with a blonde Ravenclaw one year below him who he felt was the only other intelligent student at school. Sure, Hermione was book smart. But the girl (Loony, Hermione’s tongue slipped before she blushed nearly blue) was remarkably open minded and similarly fascinated with Harry. He noted to himself that he would have to keep an eye on her.

Harry sat next to Daphne at the Welcoming Feast, the young girl becoming remarkably like her second cousin Mollie as time went by, and frowned at the announcement of a TriWizard Tournament. It seemed that Hogwarts was going to have yet another year of chaos.

Harry didn’t care for the well-polished Beauxbaton girls and boys nor the hardened Durmstrang bunch. They showed off a bit, twirling and casting fire and overall being posh. Harry sighed. It was going to be a very long year indeed.

* * *

“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” A voice interrupted Harry’s studying. Harry looked over the library table and blinked owlishly at the young man.

Viktor Krum, for some reason or another, had fallen hard for Hermione Granger in the space of two days. Harry didn’t mind as the boy normally didn’t talk other than to whisper sweet nothings in Hermione’s ear in Bulgarian, to the girl’s blushing consternation. It just meant that the boy was now in the library with them, pretending to read (Harry seriously doubted the boy had given a second thought to books before now) while giving Hermione heated looks.

“I could say the same for you,” Harry answered, not unkindly.

“You also never answer a question. You’re very good at de-de-“ At this, the Bulgarian turned to Hermione helplessly.

“Deflecting,” Hermione answered distractedly, not looking up from her reading.

“Yes, deflecting,” Krum stated, smiling at the brunette in adoration. It was remarkably similar to the look Sirius gave Remus and Harry felt a small stir curling in his chest.

Harry tilted his head as he looked at the boy, wondering what was bringing his irritation on. “Sure,” Harry agreed, returning to his reading.

“You are not what I thought of when I heard Harry Potter is at Hogwarts,” the young man continued.

Harry sighed and put down his book, resigned to the fact that the Seeker had decided to start a conversation.

“And?” Harry asked, raising a brow curiously.

“And I think it is good,” Krum stated. “You are clever and think before you act.”

Hermione huffed loudly, slamming her book shut. “No, he doesn’t think _at all_ ,” the girl barked. “You think that’s introspection? No, that’s him floating along like a jellyfish. He does what he wants, when he wants, consequences be damned.”

Krum looked at her in surprise.

“Introspection means to look inward,” Harry added. Krum turned to him with his eyebrows drawn together.

“I know what this means,” Krum responded, frowning.

“Oh,” Harry answered, unperturbed. “Do you know what a jellyfish is?”

Krum looked embarrassed. “No,” he stated a little bitterly.

Harry raised his wand and waved it carelessly. A vaporous jellyfish poured out of the tip and swam away, its large mushroom top pluming as it rose to the ceiling.

“Ah, _meduza_ ,” Krum agreed, watching the creature slowly evaporate. “Yes. Jellyfish.”

“Hermione means to say that I don’t worry a lot,” Harry said brightly. “I’m actually just slowly sucking any calmness out of her for my own needs like a Zen Dementor. That’s why she’s so high strung.”

Hermione spluttered as Krum looked at her fondly. “’Mione is very passionate, yes,” he agreed warmly. Hermione turned bright red at the nickname and, though the Bulgarian was yet to be able to say her full name, Harry thought the girl liked the nickname coming from the Seeker’s lips.

“Though some might feel a little odd at your age difference,” Harry continued calmly. “It does seem a little inappropriate for a seventeen-year-old to be courting a fourth year. I won’t go throwing around the ‘p’ word, but I feel like I have to address the elephant in the room. Or Bulgarian.”

Hermione turned to Harry with an expression of such mortification and rage that he had to suppress a wince. Harry kept staring at Krum coolly, head tilting as he watched the boy’s reaction.

“I will not take advantage of ‘Mione,” Krum responded slowly and Harry could tell that the boy was a little annoyed. “I am not a cad.”

“That’s a good word, cad,” Harry answered smoothly, smiling now. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. They’ll never find your body. Whatever I did to Voldemort will, quite literally, look like child’s play,” he added lightly, as if discussing his favourite flavour of tea.

Krum looked at Harry in shock, mouth slack. “I will not hurt ‘Mione,” the Seeker assured deeply once he had recovered.

“ _Harry!_ ” Hermione hissed. Harry finally broke his blank staring contest with Krum (an expression he knew intimately intimidated people, for some reason) and turned to Hermione, smiling innocently. “That – you – ooh!” The girl harrumphed, looking harried.

Hermione quickly jumped to her feet and scurried out of the room, forgetting her bookbag in the process. Hermione had never done that before. Forgetting one’s books was tantamount to child abandonment in Hermione’s eyes.

Harry laughed delightedly, never having seen the girl so wound up.

“Take her books to her,” Harry suggested, turning to Krum with a raised eyebrow. “She’ll swoon.”

Krum sighed, standing and stuffing the tomes into the worn bag. He shouldered it and made to move out of the library but stopped just at the end of the desk.

“I didn’t get to ask you what I wanted to,” Krum said slowly, thinking over his words. “You are very good at deflection.” He then walked out of the library quickly, following Hermione’s trail before it went cold.

Harry smiled a little blandly at the library wall. Unfortunately, hanging out with other wallflowers meant that, sometimes, they looked at him too.

* * *

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore’s voice boomed through the Great Hall.

Harry froze, a piece of blanched broccoli halfway to his mouth. His eyes flickered to the white-bearded wizard.

“ _Harry Potter!”_ The man repeated, a little more furiously.

Daphne turned to look at him along with the rest of the Great Hall’s inhabitants and Harry popped the broccoli piece into his mouth. _Interesting_ , Harry thought as he slowly chewed.

“Go!” Daphne hissed, frowning at him irritably and pushing his shoulder with a firm hand.

Harry sighed, a noise of long-suffering irritation.

“Yes, _Mollie_ ,” Harry stressed, knowing it would rile Daphne up to be compared to her older cousin, and stood. The hall exploded into whispers and Harry felt an uncomfortable tingle run up his spine at being watched by so many people. He hadn’t been this noticed since his Sorting.

Once in a back room of the Great Hall that Harry hadn’t known existed, the other Champions quickly wrapped around him. Harry felt himself grow immensely irritated, unable to slink into the shadows when the trio of seventh years and their associated professors squabbled and fought over him.

“Did you do this, Harry?” Dumbledore finally asked at last, his calm tone cutting unnaturally through the grumbles of the other professors.

“No, sir,” Harry answered honestly, picking at loose strings on his sleeves. He really needed new robes.

“Liar,” hissed a sickly-looking man standing close to Krum.

“Now, now,” a deep, velvety voice crooned through the room. “Let’s hear the lad out.”

Dumbledore bristled and turned around, blue eyes flashing dangerously. “Tom,” the wizened wizard stated with inappropriate familiarity.

Harry peered around the Headmaster curiously. He wasn’t disappointed.

Tom Riddle, or Voldemort, stood in the entrance way next to what Harry assumed was the Minister of Magic. Even though he’d only been around for a few months, it appeared the man had already made friends in high places. This new Voldemort was nothing like the creature Harry faced in the depths of Hogwarts; he was tall, lithe and impeccably dressed, with dark hair gently coiffed in the current fashion of politicians. Voldemort appeared to be in a strange age bracket in which he could have passed off as a mature looking thirty-year-old or youthfully reaching his fifties (wizarding age was hard for Harry to tell). Voldemort had become the best combination of Quirrell and the young man in the second-floor girl’s bathroom and Harry felt a little dazed as the man turned to him and smirked.

A Charming Charm sown into his clothes, Harry realised. To butter people up. Harry nearly laughed; it looked like the old man could still learn new tricks.

“I agree,” Cedric Diggory added. “We should hear Harry out first.” Harry felt himself blush lightly at the boy’s quick defence, dropping his chin and looking at the tips of his shoes in sudden interest.

In the corner of his eye, Harry watched Tom turned his horrible, beastly omnipotent eyes on Diggory and the man smiled, but it wasn’t very nice.

Diggory smiled back obliviously, thinking he had support. Harry felt a strange realisation roll in his gut.

Diggory was going to die this year.

“He is not much, is he?” A girlish voice asked, her thick French accent nearly swallowing the words whole.

Harry turned to a stunning blonde, the girl leagues prettier than even the long-graduated Mollie. He watched her as she jutted her chin out and raised her eyebrows at Dumbledore, as if the man should do something.

“No,” Krum contradicted. “He is definitely something.”

Harry shifted uneasily, not comfortable with how many people were paying attention to him. It seemed that the severity of the situation had easily overcome even his childhood gift of being Not Seen.

Harry didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

* * *

“Who would do this to you?” Hermione whispered, wringing her wrists over the Potion’s table. “You don’t have many enemies. In fact, I’m not sure _anyone_ besides me knows you exist.”

Harry smiled lopsidedly at her. “I’m pretty sure I know,” Harry mulled, pushing powdered mealworms into his potion.

“ _Who?_ ” Hermione hissed.

“You honestly wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Harry laughed quietly. “I’m starting to think he gets off on watching me struggle through trials and mazes like a lab rat.”

Hermione looked affronted but didn’t push him further. Harry realised she probably thought he meant Dumbledore.

If _only_.

* * *

If Harry thought it was bad being noticed by the occupants of the Champion’s room, then it was nothing compared to the hellfire that ripped through the Hogwarts Rumour Mill. It was _total_ _chaos_.

Harry resorted to walking around under his cloak, sneaking past throngs of students as they gossiped loudly about him. There seemed to be a general notion that the small, barely recognisable boy from Slytherin was being pranked. After all, everyone knew his name but couldn’t pick him out of a line-up and he was generally assumed to be a Sneaky Slytherin, but not very clever.

From the whispers, Harry gathered that most people thought it was Malfoy colluding with some Seventh Years; after all, everyone knew that there was no love lost between the pair. To be fair, though, that was also mostly rumours as well as Harry and Malfoy had yet to really butt heads since their confrontation in the potions room in First Year. Something about Harry disturbed the blond, which filled Harry with a certain amount of dark satisfaction.

After what felt like a decade, the First Task finally came up. Hagrid, who never really understood Harry but smiled at him all the same and gave him well-meaning but unnecessary birthday gifts, led the small boy through the forest.

The half-giant and small boy looked at the fire-breathing dragons in silence and Harry knew what he had to do.

Fighting a Norwegian Ridgeback seemed like a lot of effort and Harry didn’t want to spend time telling it what to do or trying to sneak around it or even seeing if it spoke the same language as the Basilisk, seeing as dragons were somewhat like second cousins to snakes. Instead, he did what he knew best and wished Very Hard that it would go to sleep. The monster fought a little harder than the Cerberus did but eventually it released a miserable moan of smoke and collapsed.

No one clapped nor did they understand. Harry didn’t expect them to.

After that, Harry’s position in the Tournament was no longer contested, but people did start to murmur that he _must_ have put his name in the Goblet.

“That was very lazy of you,” Voldemort drawled as he leant against Harry’s library study desk. Hermione and Krum were off doing god-knows-what (though Harry could take three guesses) and he spent the afternoon catching up on his schoolwork. Harry looked up from his studies.

“Oh?” He asked, eyebrows drawing together and a little annoyed that he couldn’t get a spot of studying done anymore without somebody interrupting him. Damned Seekers.

“Yes,” Voldemort assured, studying his perfectly manicured nails as if he wasn’t an immortal Dark Lord pretending to play politician. Harry didn’t believe the nonchalance for one second; after all, he’d seen the man’s spectacular melt-down in a hidden chamber on the third floor. There was no going back from that.

“How so?” Harry pressed, wondering what the man was getting at.

“That’s exactly how you took down the mutt,” Voldemort sighed, pulling back a wooden chair from across the table and sitting down. Harry had a flash of recollection to his first introduction to Voldemort when the monster wore Quirrell’s skin and sprawled out in the professor’s chair by the fire.

“Oh,” Harry stated. “Yeah, sure.” He returned to his book.

Voldemort sat there while Harry slowly was reabsorbed into his studies. A while later, Harry looked up, wondering why the man was so quiet, and jumped when he realised the man was gone. Harry hadn’t seen him leave and would have if he stood; the man had evaporated.

Voldemort didn’t come bother him again for a while, either as himself or Advisor Riddle, and for that Harry was equally disappointed and relieved.

* * *

During the Lake challenge, Harry was sent to retrieve Sirius. Hermione was there too, but Harry realised that she was probably for Krum. Harry thought it a bit sad that the only loved one they could find for Krum was a fourteen-year-old girl he’d just met.

Harry simply wished he could breathe underwater, fought grindylows (finally realising what Voldemort meant when he said frenzy) and returned within a neat thirty-five minutes. He was third last (the French girl captured by the vicious lake creatures) but splutteringly mad that Sirius had been kidnapped. Harry walked past the other Champions after returning Sirius to the tender care of Remus, past the guests, everyone – and returned to the cupboard of his first two years.

Harry sat in there angrily for a while, mad even though he _knew_ that the challenge wasn’t going to kill his godfather. But Harry was a little too familiar with his loved ones being shredded, so he allowed himself the irrational irritation and kept away from the other students for the remaining day.

* * *

Christmas went by quickly. Harry was told that he Must attend the Yule Ball and was expected to bring a date to the opening dance.

Harry didn’t bother showing.

* * *

The last task, a maze, was the final straw for Harry. He was exhausted, trying to both keep on top of his studies and not die, and he really let himself go. He burnt down a good portion of the maze, choosing to walk straight through into the middle instead of zig-zagging back and forth like his opponents. Harry didn’t particularly want to _win_ , but the faster he completed the maze, the faster he could go back to being Unseen.

Harry ran into a Sphynx at one point and that turned out to be pretty cool. She was absolutely beautiful and regal, which he was sure to tell her. As she preened her feathers, Harry edged around her with a small smile and giving her his personal address, mentioning that he would love to have a chat over a cup of tea if she ever had the time.

“ _What a lovely boy,”_ Harry heard the Sphynx say. When it came to supposed ‘dark’ creatures, Harry found that a bit of politeness went a very long way.

At last, Harry reached the glowing goblet of the Triwizard Tournament side-by-side with Cedric Diggory.

“Hey,” Harry waved at the older boy, smiling.

“H-hey, Harry,” the boy stuttered through gasping breaths. It looked like he had been running through the maze and Harry was impressed that the boy made it to the end around the same time as Harry, who hadn’t bothered trying to abide by the game’s rules.

“Go on, then,” Harry offered, pointing at the goblet.

“Oh, no, Harry,” Cedric answered with a charming smile, shaking his head as he leant over to brace his hands on his knees so he could recover his breath. “You got here first. You deserve it.”

Harry felt himself blush at Cedric’s words for some reason. Harry didn’t like the feeling.

“I don’t care,” Harry dismissed, trying to shrug off his embarrassment as he stepped back from the goblet.

“How ‘bout we grab it at the same time?” Cedric suggested. “I think we’ll both be considered the winners, I think. I’m not really sure, though, ‘cause of that point system.”

Harry stared at Cedric for a few moments before nodding. “Yeah, okay,” Harry agreed.

Cedric counted down from five and their hands simultaneously clasped around the goblet. As they did so, Harry felt a strong pull behind his navel and he was too shocked by the immediate transport to react.

Harry blinked in surprise as strong forearms wrapped around him, pulling him backwards into a chest as he realised he was in the middle of a cemetery, surrounded by nearly twenty people wearing black robes and white masks.

“Is this the KKK?” Harry asked no one in particular.

A flash of green light zipped through the space Harry had been standing in a moment ago and Cedric Diggory fell dead (Harry felt like saying “ _Called it!”_ but that seemed a little flippant in the light of a student’s murder). Harry frowned at the body cooling at his feet.

“Hello, Harry,” a familiar voice crooned in Harry’s ear and he twisted his neck to look up at Voldemort’s face, realising he was being held tightly against the older man’s frame. Harry immediately blushed ( _what is with me today?_ He thought to himself) and stepped forward, relieved when Voldemort allowed him to pull himself out of the Dark Lord’s hold.

“Was that really necessary?” Harry asked irritably, pointing at the dead body at their feet.

“Yes,” Voldemort answered simply, maroon eyes sliding over the corpse and betraying no emotion.

“I doubt it,” Harry retorted, eyes narrowing.

Voldemort smiled, a flash of sharp teeth and glittering eyes. “It’s time, Harry.” Before Harry could ask what, precisely, was ‘time’, Voldemort pushed Harry violently towards Cedric and Harry squawked as he tumbled onto the young man’s body. The portkey’d goblet was tossed to him by an unknown, robed person on his left and Harry grabbed it instinctively.

“God dammit Vold –” Harry began as he felt the beginning of the transportation taking hold and he was sucked into the void once more before he could tell off the Dark Lord.

Harry appeared in front of the stands, a cooling body landing unceremoniously beside him. Harry thought for a moment, wondering what Voldemort wanted from him. It seemed like Voldemort was trying to make a point, to show the world that he could infiltrate the world’s most secure school and murder a student under Dumbledore’s watchful gaze.

 _Ah_ , Harry thought.

“Voldemort’s back,” Harry stated abruptly just before the screams started. “And that man’s polyjuiced!” He cried out dramatically, pointing at their newest Defence teacher whose magic reeked of the shapeshifting potion. Voldemort probably didn’t want Harry outing his spy too, but why not? If the monster was going to murder school children willy nilly, Harry wasn’t going to play by his rules. Harry wasn’t a messenger boy and Voldemort seemed to be under the impression Harry was on his ‘side’.

Harry is not on _anyone’s_ side.

Mad-Eye Moody was tackled as Diggory wailed over his son’s body, the desperate sound of despair curling the hairs on Harry’s neck.

Harry decided he’d had enough of Hogwarts for the year and went home, exams be damned.

A couple of weeks later, over a cup of tea, Harry wondered if he’d won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter features Harry pitted against the real villain of Hogwarts. Here's a sneak peak...
> 
>  
> 
> “Mister Potter,” the woman simpered in her high pitch, whiny voice. “You have been very bad.” 
> 
> Harry wondered if the woman had a punishment fetish. 
> 
> “You must retract what you said about his return,” the woman continued. Harry cocked his head, looking at her from a different angle. It didn’t help; she looked unmistakably like a toad. 
> 
> “Must I?” Harry asked curiously. “Or should I?” 
> 
> The woman’s eyes gleamed. “You must.” 
> 
> “Or?” Harry asked slowly, drawing out the word, wondering how far she would go. 
> 
> The woman positively grinned in response.


	8. Das Kapital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry discovers he does not like toads, takes offence to the misuse of kitten paraphernalia, and gets stood up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So unfortunately a few people have reported that Chapter 6 (Writ in Water) and Chapter 7 (Meduza) are duplicate chapters for some reason :( On my end, it looks like the correct chapters have been uploaded so I'm not really sure why this is happening! If you notice duplicate chapters, please do let me know and I'll contact AO3 support. 
> 
> ALSO fun fact, I figured out how to embed photos and please do excuse the number of pictures I'll be adding. Mwaha. The picture below isn't quite 100% representative of the ages/appearances of the characters, but the actors are close enough to how I imagined when I wrote the characters so hopefully you find this helpful :)
> 
> Now onward with the story!

 

 

* * *

Harry sat in a pink, kitten-themed office and stared blankly into the determined, watery eyes of Professor Umbridge.

Oh, the irony.

The woman took PERSONAL OFFENCE to Harry’s declaration of Voldemort’s return (capital letters not doing it justice in Harry’s mind). Harry smiled at her pleasantly and the woman smiled back, though a small twitch developed in the far corner of her eyebrow. Harry smiled wider.

“Mister Potter,” the woman simpered in her high pitch, whiny voice. “You have been _very_ bad.”

Harry wondered if the woman had a punishment fetish.

“You must retract what you said about _his_ return,” the woman continued. Harry cocked his head, looking at her from a different angle. It didn’t help; she looked unmistakably like a toad.

“Must I?” Harry asked curiously. “Or should I?”

The woman’s eyes gleamed. “You must.”

“Or?” Harry asked slowly, drawing out the word, wondering how far she would go.

The woman positively grinned in response.

* * *

The school year with Umbridge turned into a rather spectacular affair. The Gryffindors, though they despised Harry and believed every word of what was written in _The Daily Prophet_ (and it was Not Nice), did not take well to Umbridge’s imposing existence.

The first DADA class was amazingly boring, with the children all forced to read a Ministry approved book on defence that aimed more towards numbing people’s mind than actual defensive protection. Harry didn’t particularly care, as classes were always something of a chore. For Hermione, however, it was seen as an affront to education as a whole. Which, Harry reflected at a later time, was really a turning point for Hermione; when an adult ignored the sanctity of school, the girl decided that authority figure wasn’t worth the soles of the shoes they stood on and would do as she pleased, when she pleased.

“Mister Potter,” Umbridge whined as the kitten-themed clock on the back wall ticked steadily towards the end of class.

“Yep?” Harry asked, looking up from his reading. He was surprised to note that she looked rather… Annoyed. He widened his own eyes from behind his coke-bottle glasses to make himself look even more innocent. That always seemed to really piss her off.

“Do you have any _complaints_ about our new curriculum?” Umbridge asked, her large, watery eyes flickering over the classroom as students started to look up from their reading.

“Not particularly, no,” Harry answered. He then realised that the woman was baiting him, trying to get him to act out. He wondered why.

“ _Surely_ , with your recent declaration of the Dark Lord’s _resurrection_ ,” her words were heavily laden with mockery, drawing a few laughing titters from through the classroom, “You would have a complaint about not being able to use your _wand_.”

There was a beat of silence, then. Most students, if not all, knew Harry did not exactly ‘need’ a wand. The school year before had proven it. Harry wondered who would tell her first.

“You’re the professor,” Harry responded at last, enjoying the brief moment of silence and confusion in Umbridge’s expression. “I would never dare contradict you.”

“Is the Dark Lord back or not?” Umbridge snarled viciously, her sudden outburst jarring and making a few students jump.

“Oh, he’s back alright,” Harry responded in a heartbeat.

“And yet we’ve seen no movement of a Dark Lord, no villages going under or muggles turning up dead. How would you explain that?” Umbridge continued over Harry, barely pausing to listen to his answer.

“Well, if I were a Dark Lord whose last rein ended rather horrifically and the people cheered in the streets at my demise, I would probably go about it the second time with a little more tact,” Harry shrugged. Harry hadn’t bothered to mention to anyone that Voldemort _wanted_ him to announce his return while going about the Ministry as Tom Riddle, putting out fires and overall looking like a much better alternative to the current Minister who seemed to have mostly lost his head over the entire situation.

“ _If you were a Dark Lord_ ,” Umbridge repeated breathily, her already large eyes going wider. “Do you think you’ll be the next Dark Lord, Mister Potter?”

The silence in the classroom was deafening.

“No, thank you,” Harry answered politely, as if she had offered him the role personally, and stifling a roll of his eyes as he leaned back into his chair to watch her reaction.

“ _Detention, Potter_ ,” Umbridge spat, voice shaking with raw fury.

“’Kay,” Harry shrugged.

Umbridge trembled in rage.

* * *

Dumbledore tried to make Harry take Occulmency lessons with Professor Snape.

Harry informed Dumbledore Very Seriously that while he would _love_ to attend and experience the bitter man rip a metaphysical hole in his psyche on a weekly basis, he had nightly detentions with Professor Umbridge until the end of time.

One sadistic sociopath at a time, please.

* * *

Umbridge had decided she would torment the professors by conducting so-called “reviews” of their curriculum. Harry would have normally thought it amusing, but unfortunately most of her reviews coincided with classes Harry was in; he did not think this was a coincidence.

“Sybill Trelawney,” Umbridge chirped from behind a tall podium (conjured just for the occasion) at the front of the Divination classroom, each syllable of the woman’s name squeaked higher than the next.

The Trelawney in question paled considerably as Umbridge addressed her, turning slowly on her heel. The professor had been leading another absurd class of looking into glass balls (of which Harry was sure weren’t real crystal balls – he wouldn’t be surprised if the woman had sold them for sherry) and the students pretending to see things. Harry knew Lavender and her friend seemed to be the only students in the entire school with a wisp of divination talent (with the exception of Luna, who was so bored by the classes that she rarely gave an accurate reading if only to piss Trelawney off), but even they found the entire exercise frustratingly fruitless.

“Y-y- _yes_?” Trelawney finally bit out after a moment of waffling.

What then ensued was quite possibly the most aggressive interrogation and game of cat-and-mouse that Harry had ever witnessed. Trelawney was grilled, Umbridge spoke over her, Trelawney began to shake and collapse in on herself, Umbridge preened and kept with the rapid fire questions, Trelawney began to cry, Umbridge latched onto the woman’s weaknesses like a dog with a bone. It took less than five minutes to reduce the seer to a melting puddle of goo, shuddering with offence and rage and pure agony.

Perhaps it would have amused Harry had it not been Umbridge. But it was. And that annoyed Harry.

Harry wished Very Hard with every ounce of his magic that if Trelawney had a _drop_ of seer talent, it would make itself known immediately.

Trelawney shuddered harshly and then half-rose from her collapsed position on the dusty floor, her normally tipsy, cross-eyed expression melding to sharp clarity. Her head slowly turned to Umbridge, who was visibly surprised by the rapid change in the woman’s demeanour, and began to speak in a voice that was not of this world, filled with echoes and an unnatural grave deepness.

> “ _Two cultures, both alike in dignity,_  
>  _In fair England, where we lay our scene,_  
>  _From ancient grudge break new mutiny,_  
>  _Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean._  
>  _From forth the fatal loins of these two peoples,_  
>  _A pair of star-cross’d lovers take control their life;_  
>  _Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows_  
>  _Doth with their love bury their country’s strife.”_

Trelawney then collapsed into a small ball, hiccupping and shaking violently. Silence reined over the room and Umbridge blinked in shock, her massive frog-like mouth gaping open.

Harry looked around the room, wondering if the other students would recognise the modified poem ( _and how_ _lazy_ , Harry admonished Trelawney in his head). Dean Thomas, a half-blood in his year, met Harry’s eyes for a moment. Harry very slowly shook his head back and forth, a minor movement, and Dean barely nodded in response. Dean then nudged Seamus, his best friend and half-blood as well, and shook his head very slightly when the boy went to open his mouth.

No use giving away the game just yet.

Umbridge looked utterly _furious_. She had paled to a near translucent shade and her jaw, which had been open and catching flies, snapped shut loudly.

“Well.” Umbridge stated, clearly thwarted and flabbergasted by the development. “That will be all.” She then stormed out of the classroom and down the stairs, slamming the attic door with a _bang!_

Harry felt his expression brighten considerably, a little ball of excitement growing in his stomach. These “reviews” were going to be very fun indeed.

* * *

Harry sat in the Punishment Room (Professor Umbridge called it detention, but Harry wasn’t convinced) and carved into his own flesh. Well, the Blood Quill did.

_I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies._

If it didn’t hurt so badly, Harry would have been bored out of his mind. Actually, Harry _was_ bored out of his mind, which made it hurt all the worse because the only thing he could do was mull over the pain. The quill seemed to promote blood flow and fiery agony, liquifying his lifeblood into thin ink. The quill also hurt a lot more than he imagined it felt to have a knife slowly carved into one’s flesh (if that were possible) and he suspected poison; it would certainly explain why the wound wouldn’t heal.

Harry originally thought he would despise Umbridge for this alone, but surprisingly he didn’t. In fact, he thought it all rather droll. Perhaps his experience with the Dursleys and wizards in general had numbed him to the extreme spectrum of abusive behaviour.

Harry wrote over and over, watching the quill dig through his flesh, veins, cartilage, more flesh, eventually breaking through the other side. Harry fell deep into thought as he considered ways to deal with Umbridge and didn’t stop writing, watching the sharp, metal tip of the quill scratch into the parchment, bloodless, and heard rather than felt the wooden desk under his left-hand splinter.

* * *

The school year continued in a fantastically dramatic manner, with Dumbledore banished (and declared an enemy of the state), the curriculum reviews going horrifically wrong for Umbridge (which amused Harry to no end to arrange), and a pair of Gryffindor twins doing their upmost best to drive the already hanging-by-a-thread woman insane.

It was all very delightful.

What did make Harry hate Umbridge, however, was the woman’s foul attacks on Hermione. _A mudblood clawing above her station!_ Hermione had cried after that.

A month before OWLs and thus the end of the school year, Hermione and nine other students were expelled. Harry hung around throngs of chattering Gryffindors and hushed huddles of Hufflepuffs while under his cloak and got the gist of the story.

Hermione Granger had begun an underground duelling club in clear violation of Umbridge’s rules and had roped twenty students from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor into joining her. Harry vaguely recalls that Hermione had tried to convince him to lead a club at the beginning of the school year, something about his impressive control of wandless magic, but he had brushed her off with a snort. Rumour also mentioned that the girl had the audacity to name the club _Dumbledore’s Army_ and had all the club members sign their name to a cursed anti-snitch contract.

Occasionally Harry forgets that while his best friend (if he can even call her that) is a genius, she _had_ been sorted into brash Gryffindor for a reason.

And so, obviously, Umbridge eventually caught onto something going on under her nose and set her hounds, the Inquisitorial Squad, onto the case. A mousey haired brunette in Ravenclaw was the first to break and the entire house of cards collapsed.

Hermione was interrogated and subsequently expelled for breaking Ministry rules and for attacking a professor (though everyone knew that it was Umbridge’s hand, however, that broke Hermione’s nose cartilage with a ringed backhand), had her wand snapped, and was sent back to the Muggle world without even being allowed to pack her belongings. Along with every other member of Dumbledore’s Army who had a drop less than one hundred percent pure blood.

Harry did not take kindly to that. Focusing as Hard as he could, Harry wished that his name was on the DA list too, knowing the demented professor wouldn’t be able to resist despite surely having read the manifest a handful of times by now.

Harry just had to wait for Umbridge to take the bait.

* * *

_Sirius in the Ministry, Voldemort holding his jaw as the man trembled from the agony of a Cruciatus Curse. Voldemort turning and locking eyes with Harry in silent challenge._

Harry awoke with a gasp, inhaling sharply. His head ached viciously and he reached a swollen, trembling hand to his burning forehead. Harry felt something warm, slippery. He smelled copper and tang – blood.

This is new.

Harry walked to the shower, not prepared to run to his godfather’s defence reeking of sweat. This certainly wasn’t the first nightmare Harry had that came true. There were a few, the most memorable one recently focusing on a redheaded man as he was being bitten by a massive snake. Harry found out later the man was Arthur Weasley and while he didn’t particularly care for the Weasley bunch, it still left an odd emptiness on his chest when the children returned to Hogwarts after the funeral, glassy eyed.

As Harry dressed into fresh robes, he wondered if this was why Dumbledore wanted Harry to learn Occulmency. It would make sense. By why want to severe the connection between himself and Voldemort if he could get an upper hand on the man?

Unless, of course, Voldemort knew too and was playing Harry to his advantage.

That thought had Harry stopping stock still. Harry then quickly turned to his little trunk and overturned it on the bed, searching for the ornate silver hand mirror that Sirius had given Harry for his birthday. Harry finally found it and scurried to the Common Rooms so he could speak without waking his peers.

“Sirius!” Harry hissed into the mirror. “Sirius! Albert! _Hey!_ ” Harry noticed that the mirror was on Sirius’ dressing table and it faced the bed. A hand shot up out of the bed and shoved Sirius’ prone frame, but the man didn’t stir. Harry appreciated Remus’ attempts anyway.

“ _Sirius Orion Arc-_ “ Harry began, knowing the man would lose the plot.

“Harry James Potter!” Sirius roared, stumbling off the bed (totally naked) and tripping on a rug. He was clearly still drunk as a skunk from the night earlier.

“What gift did Dumbledore give me in first year?” Harry asked politely, as if he wasn’t interrupting his godfather’s sleep at midnight. Remus had sat up quickly but then moaned at Harry’s question, seeing the boy was clearly not in any mortal danger, and collapsed back onto the mattress.

“Are you checking to see if it’s me or did you genuinely forget?” Sirius groaned, on his knees before the dressing table and holding his head in his hands.

“To see if it’s you,” Harry answered, unoffended.

Sirius then turned into a giant dog, the Grim panting as it leaned back on his haunches and placed two paws on the dresser. It barked at him playfully and then whined, clearly already suffering the beginning stages of a hangover.

“Oh my god, go to bed!” Remus whined, pulling a pillow over his head while simultaneously throwing a cushion at Sirius.

“Maybe lay off the late-night calls on Sundays and Wednesdays,” Sirius mumbled as he looked guiltily in the direction of his bed.  

“Sunday and Wednesday?” Harry asked curiously.

Sirius grinned wolfishly. “Two for one shots and BDSM bring-your-spouse night,” he stated, smirking.

Harry’s eyebrows drew together. It was late Wednesday evening. “Uck,” Harry replied, gagging. “No thanks. Okay, good talk. Sleep well.”

With that, Harry placed the mirror down and thought.

* * *

Harry still went to the Ministry because… Well, it seemed a bit rude not to after all the trouble Voldemort went through. Visions weren’t exactly easy work.

Harry didn’t really know how to get there at first, or even where the wizards kept their Ministry. He supposed he should remember, seeing as he went to a few trials with Sirius in Third Year. Just in case things went south, Harry wrote a quick, unsigned note to “Albert” about going to the Ministry to meet an old friend and sent it off with a school owl. Harry had no doubt that the Ministry was reading everyone’s mail.

Harry decided to make his way on a broomstick, wishing Very Hard that he was going the right way. Sirius had gotten him a Firebolt for Christmas and though Harry didn’t play Quidditch (which nearly gave Sirius an aneurism when he found out), Harry loved the feeling of flying. His travel stopped feeling like a mission and more like going on holiday and Harry tried out a few arching flips as he flew, enjoying the freedom afforded by the magical artefact.

Harry landed outside of a phone booth and this jogged his memory. He slowly went down into the depths of the Ministry (a little surprised that he could just waltz in at midnight), following the stench of black magic, and ended up in a room with a lot of doors. Harry rolled his eyes; Voldemort really did have a thing for putting Harry to the test.

Harry opened a couple doors, scowling as they spun, and finally got the right one after wishing Very Hard. He walked into a large room filled with shelves and shelves of glowing balls that felt faintly familiar (Harry is sure he’s dreamt of this before) and wondered what Voldemort had in store for him.

“Ah, you’ve come alone. Foolish little boy,” a deep tenor rang in his ear. Harry turned around and came face to face (or rather mask) with a robed so-called ‘Death Eater’. Apparently the KKK didn’t have a wizarding branch. At least, that’s what Sirius and Remus told him. Harry was doubtful; there were too many similarities between the terrorist groups.

“Yeah, hi,” Harry replied, not the least bit perturbed. “I’m looking for Voldemort. Seen him around?”

The man reared back and a scream of rage echoed through the halls from behind a shelf.

“How _dare_ you say our lord’s name!” A woman screeched, insanity ringing out loud and clear, as she rounded into sight.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry answered, raising his palms soothingly in the international sign for _mean no harm_. “I’m here to see Tom?” He asked, wondering if that was better.

Various Death Eaters, who all seemed to be coming out of the woodwork, froze. Harry wondered if he wasn’t supposed to know that Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort too. It was getting exhausting trying to remember what he was and wasn’t supposed to know.

“Er, Dark Lord, I mean?” Harry corrected himself unsurely, face twisting into a scowl. “Look, I got his message and I’m here.”

The Death Eater closest to him tilted his head curiously as he looked at the boy. A waterfall of white-blond hair spilled over the tall man’s shoulders as he leaned his face (or mask, rather) a little Too Close into Harry’s personal space. “Aren’t you looking for your precious godfather?” The man jeered, but Harry could hear a slight off-ness in his voice.

“No, that’s okay,” Harry answered a little impatiently. “I’ve already found him.”

“Why did you come? Think you can take on a _Dark Lord_ , little boy?” The woman from before teased manically.

“No,” Harry answered honestly, now wondering why he had come in the first place seeing as they all didn’t believe he would. “Listen, I’m on a tight schedule. I have Double Potions at eight and Snape’s kind of a massive dick.”

That seemed to amuse the woman, for she laughed wickedly. It wasn’t a nice sound and it sent warning sparks up Harry’s spine.

“He is,” the woman crowed.

Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he should take them all out and look for Voldemort himself.

The first Death Eater seemed to become impatient with the situation ( _finally_ , Harry thought irritably) and pointed his wand at Harry.

“Pick up the prophecy,” he whispered dangerously.

Harry looked around, making the assumption that these glass balls were prophecies. “Which one?” He asked, eyes searching the shelves.

“That one,” the man hissed, pointing to a ball of glowing light on Harry’s right.

“Okay,” Harry answered agreeably, walking over and picking it up. Harry felt a small glow of identity magic sparkle in his hand and he realised that he was the only one able to pick it up. Interesting.

“Give it to me,” the Death Eater encouraged, voice still tight as he stretched out his hand.

“Er, no,” Harry said, not unkindly. “I have a tradition of handing things I probably shouldn’t to Voldemort. Show me to him?” Harry asked because he was damned if he went through all of the trouble to come to the Ministry and not even get to say hi.

“He’s not here,” the man finally growled out, his posh pureblood accent beginning to sound strained.

“What?” Harry asked, affronted.

“He doesn’t have time to play with _little boys_ ,” the woman cackled gleefully. Harry gave her a disturbed look, not sure if she was taking the piss or if she genuinely wasn’t aware of how odd that sounded. Perhaps Harry had just spent too much time around Sirius and his filthy innuendos.

“Well, that’s a little harsh,” Harry stated, frowning as he felt a bolt of disappointment strike his stomach. “I came all of this way to not be rude and he can’t even show up?”

“What?” The first Death Eater asked, sounding a little taken aback.

“This itty-bitty _unimpressive_ little boy thinks he can take on our Lord!” The woman squealed excitably. “He probably thinks his widdle school training will help him fight!”

Harry scowled at her. None of them actually seemed to understand. _He just wanted to say hi._

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Harry muttered grouchily. ‘Whatever’ had become a popular word in Harry’s vocabulary; Sirius said it was a teenage thing.

Harry handed over the crystal ball to the first Death Eater so suddenly that the man nearly dropped it in surprise.

“Tell him that he had no manners _at_ _all_ ,” Harry stated bitterly. “And that standing people up is just _rude_.”

Harry wasn’t sure why, but he was extremely offended. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this upset. For some reason, he thought of Hermione’s words a year before. Right now, he wasn’t being a very good _meduza_.

“You know what? No, don’t tell him any of that,” Harry sighed as he deflated, though he realised that these Death Eaters probably weren’t going to pass on his message anyway. “Is that all? ‘Cause I’m going.”

“No,” the first Death Eater chuckled, levelling his wand to Harry’s face. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Simultaneously, the wand in Harry’s face began to glow with uncast magic, Harry reached out and snapped it while wishing Very Hard that the Death Eaters would _go to sleep,_ and the door to the room opened with a bang. Several members of the Order of the Phoenix poured in as the Death Eaters dropped like stones, Harry caught the ball of light with his right hand, half of the first Death Eater’s wand still in his left. Sirius barged forward as Harry smiled at him brightly.

“Oh, hey Sirius,” Harry greeted. “Can I catch a ride home?”

Sirius growled and Harry blanched, stepping back. The man enclosed Harry in a tight hug and Harry relaxed as he felt the warmth of the man’s chest envelope him. Harry hadn’t experienced many growing up (or any, actually), but he was sure that this man gave the best hugs.

“You’re worse than your father,” Sirius grumbled with no heat at all. “How you keep getting yourself into these situations is becoming really alarming.”

Harry smiled into the man’s robes.

* * *

After the rather uneventful adventure in the Ministry, Harry was introduced to the prophecy about himself and Voldemort. Dumbledore came by the Ancestral House of Black to have a Very Serious conversation about it.

“ _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…_ ” Trelawney’s voice slowly puttered out in the library of House Black.

“Is that it?” Harry asked curiously.

Sirius spluttered. “Is – is that _it_?” The man repeated. “Harry, you’ve basically just been told that you need to fight the Dark Lord –”

“I didn’t hear that,” Harry interrupted, blinking at his godfather in surprise.

Dumbledore appraised Harry, eyes narrowed in thought. “What did you hear, Harry?” The old man asked.

“That I was prophesised to kill the Dark Lord, I did, and now he’s back. The prophecy didn’t make any mention of having to kill him over and over. It probably didn’t take into account him being immortal,” Harry answered. “Besides, what kind of calendar is it going on? Islamic, Buddhist, Jewish, Gregorian? I’m pretty sure there’s hundreds of them. And just stating ‘The Dark Lord’ doesn’t actually clarify anything. That could mean _any_ Dark Lord. I can’t believe people are making a fuss over this tripe. I’m pretty sure _everyone_ knows Trelawney’s a hack.”

“ _Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_?” Dumbledore pressed, not looking convinced.

Harry looked at him oddly. “I just said that I killed him already once. It probably meant Voldemort was surviving while I was living. Apparently, from what I’ve heard, he wasn’t looking so good by the end of the War. He’s much better since then. I guess you can say we’re both living, now.”

Dumbledore looked at Harry, pale and still. “You believe that the prophecy has run its course?” Dumbledore finally asked.

“Well, yeah,” Harry answered, frowning. “That’s clearly what it says. Weren’t you listening?”

“Harry,” Sirius sighed, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “You have an odd perspective when it comes to things like this. But yes, you are making sense.”

Harry looked at his godfather, smiling warmly. “I’ve spent my entire life watching from the outside,” Harry murmured. “I’m pretty good at finding the rules of the game.”

“Life isn’t a game, Harry,” Dumbledore said suddenly, looking at Harry with his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “You must understand that.”

“Of course it is,” Harry answered, cocking his head as he studied the Headmaster curiously. Harry found himself surprised by the Headmaster’s words, especially seeing as the elder wizard effortlessly controlled the people around him like an elaborate game of chess. “If it’s not, then that means my life just really sucks.”

Dumbledore didn’t really have anything to say after that.

* * *

Harry returned to school after the Ministry fiasco, having missed two days of school and the entire weekend.

Delores Umbridge was Not Impressed. She clearly had noticed that Harry’s name was on the Dumbledore’s Army manifest and the Inquisitorial Squad reportedly had been in a tizzy trying to find the boy over the weekend.

Harry was summoned (or dragged, really) to the vile woman’s office, tied to a chair with a binding rope around his waist, and Umbridge practically forced upon him a cup of tea which smelled odd; the tingly magical scent reminded him of the potion the goblins dosed him with back when he was eleven.

 _Veritaserum_ , Harry realised as he held the steaming under his nose, having paused just before taking his first sip.

 _Okay, that is_ It, Harry thought to himself with a frown as he pretended to take a sip of tea, the hot liquid lapping harmlessly against his sealed lips, and he lowered the cup back to its kitten-pattern saucer on Umbridge's desk. The sudden annoyance of the entire school year hit Harry hard, from Umbridge's torture sessions to Hermione's expulsion to Voldemort's rather rude stunt in the Ministry. Harry felt something _snap_ deep inside.

“Where have you been?” Umbridge questioned immediately.

“Dumbledore’s secret hideout,” Harry answered suddenly before gasping in horror, hands clapping over his mouth.

Umbridge leapt to her feet and pointed a ringed claw at Harry, eyes wild with madness. “I _knew it_ , you revolting little half-breed! Tell me where it is!” She screamed.

“I can’t,” Harry choked out, trying to keep the words from slipping past his lips and failing. “But I can show you.”

“Take me there _now_ ,” Umbridge snarled. She turned to ready her floo but was stopped by Harry saying in a small voice, “It’s in the castle.”

Umbridge turned to Harry slowly, eyes glittering in unfettered rage. “Take me to him,” she hissed, flickering her wand and unbinding Harry.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry croaked as his voice cracked, eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Harry led Umbridge out of her office and down several flights of stairs, head hung and nose sniffling as Umbridge’s wand pressed sharply against his back. At last, he stopped in front of a bathroom.

“A girl’s bathroom?” Umbridge questioned skeptically.

“The entrance to the hideout is in here. No one uses it because it’s haunted,” Harry whispered, chest still trembling with sobs.

“Clever old bastard,” Umbridge snarled before sharply pushing her wand into Harry’s back, stabbing Harry through the doorway.

Harry approached a large circular column ringed with sinks and he leant over a particular sink. Harry carefully shielded Slytherin’s insignia on the cast iron spout with his body as he leaned over, making a scene of opening and closing the two handles in a distracting rhythm as he whispered _, ‘Open’._

“Please don’t tell him it was me,” Harry pleaded as he stepped back from the shifting sinks.

Umbridge smirked at Harry in dark cruelty, her watery eyes glittering. “When I am done with you, half-blood, you will _wish_ Dumbledore had gotten his hands on you,” she spat as she approached the dramatic unveiling of the portal. The large circular vanity assembly creaked as it opened to Harry’s near silent command, the maw groaning loudly as it pulled apart and revealed a large, pitch black well in the floor within the slimy carcass of the column.

Harry rounded Umbridge slowly, watching the woman as she peered into the hole in the ground and nearly panted with excitement at the thought of taking down Albus Dumbledore.

“I could say the same,” Harry answered simply as he reached forward and shoved Umbridge violently.

The woman stumbled and teetered for a moment on the edge of the gaping hole, flailing hands failing to grasp support on the slimy walls of the column interior as her eyes flickered to Harry in shock, almost as if she couldn’t believe Harry had it in him. For a brief moment, she almost appeared to hang suspended in the air. Harry smiled at her, wiggling his fingers in a wave goodbye, then the moment passed and Umbridge screamed bloody murder as she fell down into the Chamber of Secrets.

“ _Well, after this, I should think nothing of falling down stairs_ ,” Harry said to himself in an imitation of a young, posh girl. ‘ _Close_ ,’ Harry then told the vanity in Parseltongue and it obeyed.

“That was pretty messed up,” a high-pitched voice stated from behind Harry.

Harry turned slowly on his heel to face a ghost in the Hogwarts school uniform and he smiled at her disarmingly.

“But she did have it coming,” Myrtle continued, a malicious smile spreading over her features. Harry then recalled that Umbridge planned on exorcising all the Hogwarts ghosts in a most brutal fashion.

Harry winked and showed himself out of the ghost’s bathroom, wishing Very Hard that she wouldn’t remember the last half an hour, and he walked back to his dorm rooms.

* * *

After Harry’s conversation with Dumbledore and Sirius about the prophecy, the pair decided (without Harry’s contribution) that he needed to go through something called “Social Reintegration”. Harry discovered that Sirius went through this shortly after being cleared of all charges while Harry was in Fourth Year and the man promised Harry that he’d come to each session. This made the forced meetings a little less unbearable.

Harry sat in a study, across the desk from a thin, greying man and listened to him give Sirius interesting, albeit nonsense, theories on why Harry was the way he was. The man yarned and _yarned_ to Sirius until one day, nearly a month into their meetings, the man looked at Harry in surprise.

“Yes, Doctor Zhivago?” Harry asked as the man pinned him with a narrow-eyed stare. The doctor bristled.

“Harry, we’ve been through this,” Sirius sighed. “His name is Doctor Welsh.”

Harry winked at his godfather mischievously.

“I find it interesting,” Doctor Welsh began slowly. “That I constantly find myself forgetting that you are here.”

Harry shrugged. “I know I’m a boring person. I’ve resigned myself to the fact,” he replied blandly.

“Au contraire,” the doctor went on, Harry barely stifling an eyeroll, “I find that you are very interesting indeed. But there _is_ something about you that’s keeping me away.”

Harry pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the doctor. “Oh?” He asked softly.

“I have seen you change into different clothes, different shoes… But I have never seen you without your glasses. Would you mind?” Welsh asked politely, but a gleam in his eye put Harry’s teeth on edge.

“Yes,” Harry answered politely, sitting on his hands and kicking his feet.

“Yes you mind or yes you’ll taken them off?” Welsh pressed.

“Yes,” Harry repeated, smiling disarmingly.

“Take them off,” Welsh stated firmly.

“No,” Harry disagreed, still smiling.

“Now,” Welsh demanded sternly.

“No, thank you,” Harry answered Firmly, smile slipping.

“Harry,” Sirius hissed.

Harry turned to his godfather in surprise. “Do I have to?” He asked the tired man, a little upset that Sirius wasn’t taking his side.

Sirius frowned, but his body language did relax a bit. “Yes, Harry. Sorry, kiddo. There’s no point doing this if you aren’t going to listen and I promised myself that we could get through this.”

Harry sighed, all fight seeping out of him. He lifted a shaking finger to his glasses and they hovered over the glass and metal for a moment, his brain not able to make his fingers pluck them off his nose.

“It’s alright, Harry,” Sirius whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder, and Harry realised that his hand was shaking. Harry tried to stop, but it only increased his trembling further.

Harry only took off his glasses in private and even then he didn’t look at himself; he had made a point of spelling his four-poster bed curtains shut each night to evade his dormmate’s leering eyes. Harry wasn’t sure if Hermione had seen him without. Even during the Lake task, Harry had stuck the lenses to his face. The experience with the goblins and Mollie had left a bit of a black mark on his mind when it came to the matter.

Taking a deep breath, Harry yanked the frames off his face and his eyes shuttered, retreating inwards.

“Fascinating,” Welsh breathed and Harry shuddered, recalling Damon saying the exact same thing in First Year.

“ _Merlin_ , Harry,” Sirius breathed. “You look – you look _completely different!_ ”

Harry realised with a jolt that Sirius hadn’t seen him either without his enchanted eyewear. He could count on one hand how many people had seen him without his People Repellent since he was six.

Harry didn’t dare open his eyes, instead breathing deeply through his nose and focusing on remaining calm. Harry hated feeling like this, exposed and raw and self-conscious. It sent shocks of pain down his spine.

“Depersonalisation,” Welsh stated suddenly. “When a person goes through trauma, they can potentially disassociate from reality, watching life as if through a screen, unable to participate. I’d say you haven’t been yourself for a while now, Harry, have you?”

Harry didn’t look at the man, instead keeping his eyes closed firmly. He did hum his agreement, however, as the man didn’t seem like he’d give up unless he got an answer.

“A fascinating case of ego death and masks,” Welsh continued. “Disassociation and derealisation. I wouldn’t be surprised if Harry with the glasses on is a different person than Harry with the glasses off.”

“What do you mean?” Sirius asked a little suspiciously.

“Multiple personality disorder, perhaps. Or borderline personality disorder,” Welsh stated into the silent room. “Or even just simply disassociation. I won’t know for a while. Harry has created an untouchable persona with the glasses on and has slowly crushed his real self into dust. Harry cannot face me the way he is now, and yet with the glasses on I can barely see or reach him.”

“Is that true, Harry?” Sirius asked, but he sounded very far away. Harry swallowed, feeling the beginnings of hysteria begin to well and block his throat.

“I’m a _meduza_ ,” Harry whispered into the room.

“A medusa?” Sirius asked, sounding flabbergasted. “Like the snake woman?”

“No,” Harry contradicted, eyelids still shut and breathing slowly through his nose. “A _meduza_ ,” he corrected. 

“What does that mean?” Welsh asked softly, encouragingly.

“Jellyfish,” Harry answered simply.

“What does a jellyfish mean to you, Harry?” Welsh pressed, peeling Harry apart with his questions.

Harry slowly reopened his eyes. Welsh paled when Harry pinned him with a green-eyed stare, normally dulled and hidden behind his illusionary spectacles. Harry knows full well how disturbing the colour is; the colour of death and jealousy and poison, of the curse that killed Cedric.

“A gelatinous directionless creature that lives outside of life, no brain or heart, floating around unaffected and largely invisible until one day it’s swallowed whole or washes up on the shore and people walking by will take pictures and poke at it and then it will become nothing,” Harry answered honestly, reminding himself that he was doing this for Sirius.

“That’s a very bleak outlook on life,” Welsh said, looking unsure of himself as he did so.

“I don’t think so,” Harry whispered. “I think it’s comforting.”

“That’s not healthy, Harry,” Welsh said, gaining a little more confidence. “You must learn to accept yourself and reality.”

“Must?” Harry echoed, watching the man.

“Yes,” Welsh stated, eyebrows drawing together.

“Or?” He challenged, drawing out the word, déjà vu sparkling in the back of his consciousness.

Welsh looked at him curiously, then. “There’s no punishment for not facing reality, Harry, other than what you will do to yourself and your loved ones as a result.” There was no threat, no warning in the man’s voice; just a simple statement of a basic fact.

Harry watched the doctor carefully as Welsh studied him right back. This man wasn’t playing by the rules. People were supposed to be mean, to punish him, strip him down to his core and hurt him until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Lock him in cupboards and threats of orphanages and hanging kittens and missing girls and painful tasks and twisted corpses and death-eyed snakes and torturous writing instruments. Not this simple, head on honesty in which Harry’s weaknesses weren’t being used against him or exploited for another’s gain.

Sure, Sirius and Remus didn’t do that to him. Hermione didn’t do that to him. But that was because Harry _made sure they couldn’t._

Harry felt his face crumple under the weight of Welsh’s concerned stare.

* * *

**End Act II**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trelawney’s ‘prophecy’ is a modified version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet (Prologue, 1-8). Can you guess who it’s about? *cue poorly executed slow wink*
> 
> “Well, after this, I should think nothing of falling down stairs” is a quote from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) as Alice falls down the rabbit hole. Because Harry’s silly like that.


	9. Übermensch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry adjusts to reality and reality adjusts to Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is an instance of sexual harassment and attempted sexual assault in this chapter. If you are at all affected or even remotely triggered by this topic, please skip the italicized text. It is short and not extremely graphic, but please heed this warning if you are at all concerned.

“Hello, Harry,” Voldemort said.

Harry sat in Doctor Welsh’s office and from across the desk, in the dark abyss, red eyes watched back. Harry’s sure that there’s a saying somewhere about peering into abysses, but Harry couldn’t remember nor find it within himself to care. Philosophy isn’t his strong suit, anyway.

This dream happens a lot.

Harry stared at a trinket on the mahogany desk. Harry doesn’t know what it is, but it’s made of an arch and three balls hanging on strings in a row. One ball would swing out and roll back in, hitting the middle ball. The ball on the furthest side would then bounce away. And so on and so forth it would go. Despite the metal constantly touching, there’s no sound. But Harry can hear it, just watching it, can imagine the _tack...tack…tack._ The ball in the middle never moved, but the trinket stayed in constant motion, constantly back and forth in a battle of energy.

Harry feels like the middle ball. Constantly in motion yet never moving. A frozen pendulum. Harry finds it odd that he can relate to a trinket better than a human being.

“You’re certainly very moody tonight,” Voldemort tutted, voice crushed velvet. “Hormones, again?” Always trying to get under Harry’s skin.

Harry knows the one thing Voldemort hates the most (and that’s quite an accomplishment as the monster hates _a lot_ ) is being ignored.

Harry ignored the Dark Lord.

Harry is still pissed off about being stood up in the Ministry. Harry’s angry that that weak wizards and insane witches in masks and cloaks were sent to Deal With him, as if he were some nuisance. Perhaps Voldemort was still smarting over Harry revealing his spy Year Four; perhaps Voldemort just doesn’t care. Harry doesn’t know why this infuriates him so, but he is tired of analysing his emotions and doesn’t want to think about it.

“You can’t ignore me forever, Potter,” Voldemort stated suddenly as he leaned forward, the chill of his voice breathing forth like an Arctic dragon and crystallising the baubles on the desk. The room slowly iced over, frost climbing up the window panes and winding around Harry’s forearms in the way only possible in dreams. Or perhaps Voldemort really is a Hydra. Harry doesn’t know. Either answer wouldn’t surprise him.

The pendulum swung and Harry ignored the Dark Lord, wishing the man would leave him alone. Harry didn’t wish Very Hard, though. He doesn’t know why.

Voldemort snapped, snatching the pendulum with the speed of a striking viper and stopping it mid-swing.

Harry woke up.

* * *

“Let’s talk about your aunt and uncle,” Welsh said.

“Alright,” Harry answered easily. Doctor Welsh often asked after events and emotions that Harry never wanted to discuss in his life. But refusing to speak about a subject resulted in Doctor Welsh needling the topic, sneakily inserting it into every single session (Harry was up to four a week now that it was summer) and eventually Harry would find himself cornered into talking. It was simpler to agree on the spot and control the conversation from there. Harry’s not sure if that’s a point won on his side or Doctor Welsh’s.

“Your aunt and uncle, you lived with them up until the start of your third year, is that correct?” Doctor Welsh asked politely, lacing his fingers together as he peered at Harry over wire-rim glasses.

Harry is not supposed to answer in monosyllable. He’s meant to answer in a sentence. It’s hard to come up with an entire sentence on the topic of the Dursleys.

“Yes, that’s correct. I lived with the Dursleys up until I lived with Sirius,” Harry concedes, leaning back in his wingback chair and smiling blankly at Doctor Welsh, trying to force his hands to not clench the softened leather arms.

Harry is not allowed to wear his glasses during his sessions. Doctor Welsh convinced Sirius and Sirius, in turn, convinced Harry. Harry thinks that’s very backhanded. Doctor Welsh claims his office is a Safe Space. Harry thinks it’s more dangerous than Umbridge’s Punishment Room. Sirius doesn’t come to the sessions anymore; he says that Harry needs room to breathe. Harry doesn’t know what that could possibly mean.

Harry watches his own reflection glance off the runed glasses sitting innocently on Doctor Welsh’s desk. He can see himself look like Normal Harry. He waits for every second of the two hour session for the moment he can go back to being Boring Harry.

Doctor Welsh is suppressing a frown at Harry’s non-answer. Harry notices it anyway, even though his sight is blurry. “Tell me about your time with the Dursleys,” Welsh says in that polite way that sounds like a request but is mostly a command.

“Uncle Vernon sells drills and Aunt Petunia is a homemaker,” Harry replies steadily. He’s been preparing for this moment. “Cousin Dudley is not very smart, but he’s a strong boy and the family thinks he might make it as a boxer. Everyone is very proud.” Harry tells the truth like he’s fond of the Dursleys. But Harry also is fairly sure that Dumbledore has spoken to Welsh (because the man is incapable of keeping his nose out of everything) and that the good doctor is aware of Harry’s reaction to the Dursley’s potential death.

“You’re telling me how people see them,” Welsh counters. “Not how you do.”

“What would you like me to say?” Harry asks curiously, a little mystified as to the purpose of this jaunt down memory lane. “That Uncle Vernon beat me every day and Aunt Petunia burned me with menthols? That I ate scraps out of the bin at midnight and slept in a cupboard under the stairs? That I set them on fire when I was six or that Dudley is a sociopath?”

Harry has gotten good at weaving half-truths and half-lies together. It makes Welsh both believe and doubt him. Harry likes being the doctor’s Schrödinger Cat; the doctor knows that Harry is broken but he is never quite sure if Harry is fixable or unfixable.

“Harry,” Welsh sighs deeply, sounding heavily disappointed. “Sarcasm is not necessary. I just want to know how _you_ feel.”

Part of Harry, a part that he ruthlessly stamps down, stings when the doctor doesn’t pick up the lies from the truths. Voldemort always knows when Harry is lying, what is a truth and what is falsehood. There’s a certain freedom in having one’s shields ripped away. Harry wonders when Doctor Welsh will catch on – or, rather, if Doctor Welsh can catch on.

“How I feel,” Harry repeats. “I don’t like them. They do not like me. We’re apples and oranges. There’s nothing more to be said.”

“And yet you were so traumatised by your time with them that you created an entirely different persona,” Welsh said firmly. “Something must have happened.”

Harry frowns at Welsh, then. It annoys Harry when the doctor gets like this, like a shark that can taste blood in the water.

“I didn’t create a different persona. I made a way for myself to _be_ myself. It was easier to live my life when they wouldn’t bother me,” Harry answered after a long pause.

“The Dursleys did not like when you were yourself?” Welsh pressed, a gleam in his eye the only tell that he was excited with the turn of conversation.

“The Dursleys do not like anyone when they are themselves,” Harry stated. “They do not like Mr. Jones down the road when he divorced his wife. They do not like Miss Patterson up the road when she brought home a man out of wedlock. They do not like children and they do not like other ethnicities. In fact, they do not even like green eggs and ham,” Harry concluded without a single inflection in his voice.

Doctor Welsh’s eyebrows bunched together, as they often do at Harry’s muggle references. The man is a pureblood, a thorough-bred through and through. He is never quite sure when Harry is teasing.

The man is out of touch.

Harry is not sure if he likes that or not.

* * *

Welsh and Unboring Harry sometimes practice walking in the street. Welsh calls it Exposure Therapy. Harry calls it Inconvenient. They always go to muggle London and Welsh is terribly disoriented, but it’s safer for Harry because he cannot be recognised. Harry hasn’t bothered to tell Welsh that even in the Wizarding World he wouldn’t be recognised because it’s amusing to see the man looking like a fish out of water in the busy streets of non-magical London.

Well. It was amusing until two weeks before the beginning of Harry’s Sixth Year when the pair returned to Doctor Welsh’s office and the man could not find Harry’s glasses. The doctor had Lost them. The doctor even made a proper show of looking about for them; Harry may even have believed the man if he weren’t so furious.

Harry does not think it is a mistake.

Harry razed the doctor’s office, and subsequently the building, to the ground.

Sirius was Not Happy.

Harry didn’t care. In fact, Harry was _mad._ Harry was also upset, hurt, furious, betrayed – every single tumultuous emotion Harry hadn’t felt since he was six years old racked his frame.

Even amongst the smoke and ashes of his ruined office, Doctor Welsh tried to reason. Tried to tell him he was making progress.

Harry almost killed him. _Almost._ It wasn’t for a lack of trying.

Sirius stood in front of the doctor, calling to him, trying to reach Harry through the haze of fury and pain and total emotional destruction.

Harry had barely stopped, moments away from obliterating his own godfather with the same viciousness of the Black Queen decapitating the White King. He collapses into his godfather’s arms and then they’re back in House Black. Harry doesn’t speak to his godfather or Doctor Welsh for a week. Even though he is angry at them, Harry does not hold them accountable.

Harry thinks Voldemort is involved, he’s just not sure how.

It’s terrifying for Harry to be exposed like this, to feel every emotion as it passes through his heart and for every person to notice him as they walk by on the street. Harry has always been lost in the tumultuous sea that is humanity and his only life buoy were his glasses.

Harry tried to make new glasses. They do not work.

His vision corrected itself overnight.

* * *

“Hey, kiddo,” Sirius whispered, running a hand through Harry’s birds-nest hair. “It’ll be alright. This school year will be tough, I’ve no doubt. But I’ll always carry the mirror with me. Call for me anytime.”

Harry looks at his godfather, wondering how one person could go through so much hell and come out alright on the other side. Perhaps Sirius is strong. Or maybe he’s just an idiot. Either way, Harry wishes he can be like that too.

They stand in front of Hogwarts, the gates casting shadows over the pair.

“There’s a Níðhöggr under the school,” Harry states suddenly, mouth stumbling slightly over the foreign word. “Though I guess it’s not as bad as a nāga.”

Sirius looked at Harry, eyebrows pulling together. “In English, pup,” the man reminded. “I’m beginning to regret getting you those books.”

Harry thought for a moment, frowning. Doctor Welsh (whom Harry still Loathed and was told he Must see each Saturday even while at school) suggested that Harry tell at least one secret about himself to a loved one each day. 

Harry had thousands of so-called secrets, seeing as he hadn’t told anyone anything of value about himself ever, and he considers Sirius (and Remus, by default, as the two discuss everything) the only loved one worth telling the secrets to. Harry had smiled at that challenge. He was determined to be Doctor Welsh’s most petulant, difficult patient ever. Harry has not forgiven the man for his lost glasses.

“A Níðhöggr,” Harry repeated exasperatedly, wondering how to explain. “Oh, wait,” Harry said abruptly, reconsidering. “No – I meant basilisk.”

“What?” Sirius squawked, turning to Harry with fear in his eyes.

“Ginny Weasley sicked a basilisk on the students in Second Year,” Harry added unhelpfully.

“She – wait,” Sirius stammered. “The Weasley girl who went missing? She _what?_ ”

“Ginny Weasley was possessed. Well, I think so. I don’t have proof, so that’s mostly hearsay. She released a basilisk on the students and then walked into the floor. Someone else walked out in her place,” Harry stated. He turned back to the sight of the ancient castle sitting peacefully on the plains of the Scottish Highlands. Harry loves Hogwarts.

Sirius looked at Harry in horror, his eyes wider than saucers and mouth gaping like a fish.

Harry likes this new challenge to tell Sirius a secret each day. No matter how simply Harry states the secret, Sirius never seems to understand.

* * *

School is hell. Everyone notices Harry now and it makes him want to rip his skin off and burn it.

Harry doesn’t, mostly because Sirius begged him not to, but it doesn’t stop him from fantasising about it all the same.

* * *

There was much talk during the summer and at the beginning of the year about Umbridge and her alarmingly sudden disappearance from the school. But eventually that drama faded too when Dumbledore was reinstated as Headmaster and everyone seemed to shrug over the Defence Curse™ striking again. Harry mused this was helped by the fact the Ministry employee was a demonic harpy who was now wanted for questioning over allegations of torturing students (and, most importantly in the eyes of the public, _pureblood_ students); if Umbridge disappeared, this helped the Ministry avoid having to address some very questionable behaviour.

The only bright spot of the entire year was when Hermione (and the rest of Dumbledore’s Army, but Harry didn’t care about them) was allowed to return to school, despite the protests of Lucius Malfoy on the Board of Directors. Who, ironically, had just been released from Azkaban on bail after being caught in the Department of Secrets wearing Death Eater garb; Harry suspected Voldemort was behind this development.

Speaking of irritating blonds, Draco Malfoy was now a Death Eater and that bothered Harry. Harry followed the pale boy through the castle from under his cloak. Harry felt like himself when under the cloak. He thanked every imaginary deity that Welsh hadn’t found out about it.

He followed Malfoy until Something Happened and he stopped.

* * *

It took Harry nearly two months to come to terms with Draco Malfoy. Hermione eventually found out that Harry had moved back into the broom closet of his first two years. She then let herself into the tiny space and made him explain, made him talk.

When Harry began to explain, feeling safer in the dark cupboard with Hermione than an entire summer’s worth of therapy sessions, the words spilled out of his mouth almost unwillingly.

* * *

 

_Harry came out of the dorm bathrooms, towel tied securely to his waist and rubbing a small hand towel against his damp hair. It was second period, which Harry had free, and he had expected the dorm to be empty._

_It wasn’t._

_Draco Malfoy sat on the edge of Harry’s four-poster bed, blond hair tousled and an odd expression on his face. Harry likened it to an attempt of Voldemort’s devilish grin, but it held none of the charm and effortlessness._

_“Get off my bed,” Harry stated. He wasn’t interested in engaging the boy beyond necessary and, besides, they’d hardly spoken since first year except to exchange barbs and Harry did not feel inclined to start a conversation now._

_As Harry approached his bed and cocked a hand on his hip, waiting irritably for the blond boy to leave, he noticed with a jolt of irrational fury that the boy had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Ebony black and pulsing with familiar magic, the cursed tattoo of the Dark Mark swirled dangerously on Malfoy’s forearm. Harry could taste the magic from this proximity and he felt his lip twitch._

_Only Voldemort himself could cast a mark like that. And, though Harry sees him every night and still refuses to talk to him (because fuck him), it really annoys Harry that Malfoy met him, spent time with him, was marked as His. It’s almost like Harry’s time with Voldemort is cheapened, somehow, if the man chooses to hang out with idiots like this._

_Harry doesn’t understand why this annoys him so much. But he doesn’t really care. All Harry knows is that this moron is on his bed, eyes roving Harry’s half-naked form and invading Harry’s rather strict personal space._

_“Do you really want me to?” Harry registers Malfoy saying and he pulls himself out of his thoughts._

_“Yes,” Harry answers blankly, not raising to the bait._

_“You know, you’ve really blossomed this year,” Malfoy hums, teeth biting his bottom lip, grey eyes sharp, still not moving off Harry’s bed._

_Harry considers this for a moment. In another lifetime, in another universe, Harry might be pleased by Malfoy’s advances. But Harry’s not that person, he is not interested in Malfoy nor given any inclination that he is (and he’s made that perfectly clear), and this situation is rapidly becoming a massive pain._

_“Cheers,” Harry deadpans. From his sessions with Welsh, Harry has come to realise that he has nearly perfected the art of weaponizing his passiveness. Only under extreme pressure does he break and react. Harry feels himself nearing the end of his fuse in record time as Malfoy stands but, instead of moving away, the boy wraps his hands around Harry’s waist. The touch hurts, partially from the strength of Malfoy’s grip but mostly from the rage swelling under Harry’s skin at the points of contact._

_“You’re beautiful,” Malfoy is saying and then lips are on Harry’s and Harry Loathes it. With the hatred of a thousand Dursleys. There’s a tongue pushing past the crease of his lips and a hand slipping under the loosening towel onto his arse and he’s being tugged against Malfoy’s body with aggressive fingers despite Harry trying to push him away with firm hands on the blond’s chest. Malfoy is grabbing and manhandling and Harry realises with a jolt that Malfoy has provided no consideration to Harry’s lack of consent; in fact, he may even like it that Harry is saying no._

_The miserableness of the last few months weighs so suddenly, of his stolen glasses and forced therapy sessions and daily secrets and those annoying touches from Malfoy that have been slowly accumulating into the current situation in which Harry tells Malfoy to fuck off every single time – it all builds up. Harry feels the thin string of his control snap with a near audible_ twang!

_Harry wished Very Hard in that moment that Malfoy could never feel physical attraction for a person ever again. The movement against his mouth stops, the fingers freeze in their groping, the hardness against Harry’s hipbone deflating, and there’s an odd beat of inaction in which Harry is still pressed against the boy, but nothing is happening._

_“What did you do?” Malfoy is whispering fearfully against his lips, sounding almost… Hollow._

_“I fixed you,” Harry answers softly, tone near loving in a poor man’s mimicry of Voldemort’s smugness, because suddenly Harry finds it easier to pretend to strong than to show how weak he is. Harry tilts his head and feels the taller boy’s bottom lip brush against his own as he says, “Say thank you, Malfoy.”_

_Then Malfoy is running, escaping, scrambling out of the dorm room like the hounds of hell are on his heels. Harry returns to the bathroom and takes another shower, scalding, and he scrubs his teeth to remove the taste of Malfoy._

* * *

“He won’t bother you again,” Hermione said tonelessly, holding Harry closely. They lay on a conjured cot, the lean girl wrapped around Harry protectively.

“How can you be sure?” Harry asked, wondering why the girl was coddling him so. He didn’t dare comment on it, but it actually felt nice to be hidden up in a dark, dusty broom cupboard and wrapped in the arms of a girl that he wishes could be his sister. And maybe she is.

“Because I’ll castrate him,” Hermione answered simply.

Harry thought Hermione’s comment was amusing hyperbole until, two days later, Draco Malfoy was rumoured to be in the Hospital Wing. An unknown assailant had assaulted him with a cutting curse on the way to one of his classes.

Harry discovered a few hours later that his invisibility cloak was missing.

Hermione smirked when she returned it.

* * *

Slughorn, the new Potions teacher (making Snape the Defence teacher, may the universe have mercy on their souls) also thought he was awfully clever and tried, multiple times, to impose himself on Harry. Harry watched the man talk and talk and _talk_ until he wished Very Hard that the man would forget what he wanted to say just before he said it. Unless, of course, it was important.

Unfortunately for Slughorn, that required Harry to be around to decide if it was or not. Harry amused himself by asking the large man if a cat had caught his tongue and watched as his eyes grew wide in horrified realisation.

Dumbledore eventually made him unwish it (though Harry had a sneaking suspicion that the old man didn’t really want to) which wasn’t really possible as Harry had very little control over his own magic and could only wish Very Hard for something opposite instead of unravelling what had been done. He merely wished Very Hard that Slughorn could talk to his heart’s content once more, but Harry had a feeling that there was a little more to the wish than what first met the eye. Harry was interested to see what form it took.

Even still, the experience took Slughorn out of Harry’s hair for the rest of the year.

* * *

Dumbledore tried to teach Harry about Voldemort. It was very boring, took up a lot of his time, and required sticking his face in Dumbledore’s gooey memories.

Harry wondered if pensives had a direct correlation to dementia, seeing as the man was getting dottier with each day. Maybe that’s why the old wizard stuck his blackened left hand into a curse. Harry was surprised it wasn’t his nose.

Harry finally realised what Dumbledore was telling him. Horcruxes. Yeah, okay. Gross, but still – Harry could understand that.

Harry wondered why it took Dumbledore so long to get there.

* * *

“I gave Voldemort the Philosopher’s Stone in First Year on the premise he’d return it and I don’t think the monster gave it back to him,” Harry mentioned to Sirius one day during Yule break. Harry stopped eating suddenly. “Actually, I didn’t make him promise. I take back the last part. Who is the Philosopher, anyway?” He asked, realising he’d never considered this before.

“Okay, that’s it,” Sirius barked, jumping to his feet. Harry watched his godfather carefully through hooded eyes, the man pacing back and forth past the kitchen table as if he were still a dog. Sirius acted like the Grim when he was upset.

“You’re sending me these notes, day in and day out,” Sirius muttered. “Sometimes it’s little things, like which hand you prefer to write with or who your favourite Quidditch player is – which, by the way, you’re not supposed to choose based on the fact you got to threaten him and he’s the only one you know of – and I just – Harry,” Sirius ended abruptly, turning to the boy.

Harry watched him patiently, only a little surprised it took this long for the man to break.

“Then you tell me these horrible things that – hell, I don’t know if you’re joking or serious or if you’re actually crazy or not,” Sirius said, mouth twisting. “And sometimes these things are enough to get you tossed in Azkaban for twice of my sentences. Stop telling me, Harry. Please,” Sirius begged.

Harry shrugged softly, but it wasn’t malicious. Harry really does love Sirius. He just wishes (not Very Hard) that the man _understood_.

* * *

“The point of this exercise isn’t to torture your godfather, Harry,” Doctor Welsh said.

Harry smiled at him, the gesture appeasing. “Of course,” Harry agreed.

“Then why are you doing it?” Welsh pressed.

“I’m not, at least not on purpose,” Harry answered sincerely. “I just think you underestimated my secrets.”

“Will you tell me one?” Welsh asked.

“What haven’t I told you?” Harry retorted, laughing a little and waving his hand.

“Where you got that scar,” Welsh stated and Harry stopped laughing.

Harry looked down at the large, mottled scar on his left hand. _I must not tell lies_. He remembered the horrified look in Umbridge’s eye when she came back and found the words carved into a desk, Harry’s hand twisting as the wounds tore, page after page of inkless writing scratched bloodless into parchment. Showing Umbridge how far _he_ would go.

 _I must not tell lies_.

“A professor,” Harry answered simply.

“See, right there,” Welsh stated pointedly, leaning back in his chair and frowning as he took off his spectacles to clean them with his shirt. “That’s why your godfather can’t do this.”

Harry tilted his head as he studied Welsh’s reaction.

“How so?” Harry asked curiously.

“For one, teachers aren’t allowed to torture their students,” Welsh sighed heavily, looking for all intents and purposes like a world-weary physician.

“Of course,” Harry concurred. “Anything else would be sick.”

Welsh narrowed his eyes at Harry and pursed his lips disapprovingly. “Yes,” the man agreed tiredly, as if exhausted by the conversation.

Harry doesn’t buy it for a second.

* * *

The school year was looking to be their most uneventful of all until Draco Malfoy tried to assassinate Dumbledore and couldn’t, so Professor Snape did instead. Harry watched all of this from under his cloak. Harry’s only escape from himself now is while under the cloak.

Death Eaters poured out of a room on the Seventh Floor, Hogwarts went into lockdown, and Harry watched curiously as chaos bloomed around him.

* * *

“Doctor Welsh is Voldemort,” Harry told Sirius on the first day of summer break. Harry couldn’t wait to turn seventeen. It was going to be excellent.

Sirius turned to Harry, a jerk of his head that cracked his neck loudly.

“What did you say?” Sirius breathed, the dark lines under his eyes concerning.

“Doctor Welsh is Lord Voldemort,” Harry repeated.

“Merlin, Harry,” Sirius whispered. But it was a different kind of _Merlin_ that Harry was used to from Sirius. It was… Pitying. Worried. “What’s going on, prongslet?” Sirius asked. “Is it Dumbledore’s death? Listen, I know we’re all a little strung out from the funeral and all but I really can’t take this crazy talk right now.”

Harry jerked back from Sirius, mystified for a moment, wondering when he’d gone too far.

“Are you having meetings with Doctor Welsh?” Harry asked. Harry didn’t think he’d ever said anything so lightly or casually in his entire life.

“Yeah,” Sirius said, running a hand through his rough hair. “Working through all of this… Stuff.”

“Please don’t see him anymore,” Harry asked in his most genuine, polite tone.

“Harry, I’m serious,” Sirius stated and Harry realised that he was, the man not usually one to give up the worn pun on his own name. “This whole insane thing is really going too far.”

Harry stopped in the entrance hall of No. 12 Grimmauld Place. He stared at his godfather, the man looking downtrodden and completely beat.

Harry shuttered inwards in a moment of weakness and he wished a little Too Hard that Sirius had never found him. 

Sometimes, Harry forgot what his wishes could do.

* * *

It took three hours to bring Sirius’ memories of Harry back. Harry went through every thought he could think of, watching Sirius experience each wish with confusion and agony. Harry wished over and over in frantic horror, the way a child would when they’d hurt their parents without meaning to. And, in a way, Harry had. It was the longest three hours of Harry’s life.

At last, Sirius was Sirius again after having been torn apart and put back together. They sat in the library in heavy silence, Harry twisting his hands and Sirius watching the flames of a dying sunset through the library window.

They hadn’t spoken in hours. They didn’t know what to say.

Finally, Sirius sighed and leant forward, placing his hand over Harry’s, stopping the boy from picking at his scars.

“I know you didn’t mean to, kiddo. But you’ve really got to get a handle on this wishing thing. You’re almost an adult now and you can’t be doing this in the real world.”

The real world sounded terrible to Harry. Voldemort didn’t have live in the real world. Why should he?

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. It was his first and last apology.

“What’s this about Doctor Welsh, then?” Sirius asked, finally playing along. Finally understanding the seriousness of the situation.

“He wasn’t always Voldemort,” Harry whispered into the room, unable to meet Sirius’ eye. “He wasn’t up to a few weeks ago. But he is now. I think Voldemort found him through my dreams.”

Sirius sighed again, a long sound of suffering. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. Since when has Voldemort been in your dreams?”

* * *

Harry told Sirius everything. Well, most things. It took an enormous weight off his chest that he hadn’t realised he was bearing. It felt good, to be honest.

Until Sirius accidentally tattled on him to Hermione.

* * *

“Harry!” Hermione screamed, bolting into the library of House Black.

“Hello,” Harry greeted, pleasantly surprised. It was his seventeenth birthday. Perhaps she brought him a gift.

The girl ran forward and slapped Harry across the face so hard that he felt his neck crack in protest. Harry blinked owlishly at the wall of the library for a few moments. Hermione held her hand to her chest.

“How _dare_ you?” Hermione hissed.

Harry turned his head and studied the girl. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Harry wondered if that meant she’d been crying.

“How dare I what?” Harry asked, perplexed.

The girl collapsed into a chair next to him, hiccupping. “You – you gave _Voldemort_ the Philosopher’s Stone. _You’re_ the reason I was petrified in second year. And why Diggory died. How – how can you _live_ with yourself?” She asked, at first furiously roaring but as the words went on she got quieter and quieter.

They sat in silence in the darkened room.

“I’m a muggleborn, Harry,” Hermione whispered. Harry wasn’t sure why she was telling him; he knew. “Voldemort will try to kill me. And my parents. And everyone I love. How – how can you be alright with that?”

Hermione turned big, brown eyes to him and Harry realised that it would appear that way to Hermione.

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said softly.

“Exactly, Harry,” Hermione answered vehemently. “You did _nothing_. Why?” She asked, hinging on hysterical.

“I didn’t know how to stop it,” Harry answered honestly.

“You could have told someone!” Hermione cut through. “Anyone! Dumbledore, McGonagall, me – Harry, the choices are _endless_.”

Harry looked at her, then. Hermione didn’t see. And sometimes, no matter how clever the girl was, she wouldn’t be able to unless he led to her to the water. It her choice if she drank.

“No one has ever believed anything I’ve ever said until it was too late,” Harry said calmly. “Why would they start now?”

Hermione looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?” She asked, mouth ajar.

“Why would it be my job to tell someone who Quirrell was? Dumbledore knew; that much is for sure. Dumbledore knew that Tom Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets and I’m pretty sure McGonagall knew too. Dumbledore knew that Sirius never had a trial. Why have a TriWizard Tournament when the international Quidditch game was ransacked by Death Eaters, or when Tom Riddle was a newly elected Ministry advisor?” Harry paused for a moment, watching Hermione open her mouth as if to speak.

“What about fifth year – when they knew what Umbridge was and didn’t lift a finger to stop it?” Harry cut her off, suddenly unable to turn off the tap that was his mouth. “Was it because they thought it was better to be able to watch over the tortured students and not be able to do anything rather than be fired and not be able to watch at all? I didn’t try to hide my scars, Hermione; I didn’t need to. Only an idiot would believe that you punched a professor, and the bruises on your face were clearly from her rings.

“Dumbledore knew about Malfoy. So did Snape. When has a professor or adult or student ever protected or believed us, Hermione?” Harry ended curiously, chest heaving, wondering if that was the longest he’d ever spoken.

Hermione didn’t do well with answers. She did well with questions and riddles and coming to an answer on her own. Harry wonders briefly if that’s why Voldemort does the same to him.

Hermione looked at Harry for a long while, processing the information. Her face then unexpectedly crumpled. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” she whispered. “I… I haven’t looked at it like that.” One of her hands reached across the void between their chairs and she delicately touched the cheek she’d slapped, a wordless healing spell warming Harry’s flesh as her brown eyes glistened in regret.

Harry’s eyebrows drew together. “Why not? When has any witch or wizard ever actually stood up for you?”

Hermione blinked in surprise. “You,” the word ringing like a bell, churning Harry’s stomach. “With Krum. And Umbridge. I’m not sure what you did to her, Sirius wouldn’t tell me, but… You protected me.”

Harry blinked. “Oh. Yeah, okay,” Harry conceded. “But that’s a little against the point. Have you heard of the Red Queen theory in evolutionary biology?” Harry asked.

Hermione blanched momentarily, confused by his non-sequitur. “I haven’t,” she replied slowly.

“In the book _Through the Looking Glass_ , the Red Queen meets with Alice and they have to run and run and run, only to stay in the same place. If they stop running, then their enemies catch up because everyone is running so that they can stay where they are. A muggle evolutionary biologist used this as a metaphor to explain how competing creatures have to continue evolving just to survive, to explain an evolutionary arms race of sorts. If a fox becomes faster than a hare, then the hares die. So the hares have to run faster than the fox, but then the foxes die. So it’s a constant struggle,” Harry concluded.

“And?” Hermione pressed, though Harry could see she was beginning to understand his point.

“We’re all running, Hermione, only so that we can stay exactly as we are,” Harry answered, feeling the words fill the large expanse of the library. “There’s no way to always be one step ahead, but we run and run and run and maybe, one day, we’ll have lived a full life and die of natural causes. My fox is Tom Riddle and, right now, I need to run as fast as I can. I can’t get caught up in what’s happening where and to whom and why because then he’ll catch up; that’s how he nearly won in the first place. And, with any luck, he’ll be so singularly focused that he’ll forget that there are other hares in the field.”

“Harry,” Hermione said suddenly. “Who is Tom Riddle?”

Hermione knew who Tom Riddle was, or at least his politician shell, but Harry wondered if the girl really did want to know Who he was. He told her anyway.

* * *

“You’ve been very active, Harry,” Voldemort told him. “Most unlike yourself, my little watcher. I was almost disappointed when Sirius didn’t show up for his session.”

Harry finally looked up across the desk, meeting Voldemort’s eyes for the first time since these dreams started. Voldemort didn’t seem surprised, but Harry knew he was. It wasn’t the most taunting thing Voldemort had said to date, so he knew the monster hadn’t expected it to work.

“So have you,” Harry replied conversationally, relaxing into the leather wingback chair and smiling charmingly as if he hadn’t spent over a year pretending Voldemort was a figment of his imagination night after night; a bogey-man that would disappear if ignored.

Voldemort sat back, appraising Harry with hellfire eyes. The creature looked exactly as he had when he walked into the Champion’s room in Fourth Year. Voldemort hadn’t changed. Like an animated statue of marble. A chess piece that didn’t know it was in a game.

“My, talking now, are we?” Voldemort hummed playfully, his lips quirking up in a mockery of a smile. “And I see you’ve aged very well. I’m glad you’re no longer trying to keep up the illusion. Seventeen yesterday, was it?”

Harry watched him, interested. Voldemort often said things that didn’t make sense until later, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. He wondered if this was one of those times.

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “I’m an adult, I think.”

Voldemort laughed. “Yes, seventeen is the age of maturity in the wizarding world. How have you spent all this time amongst wizarding kind and still not know the basic customs of our ways?”

Harry wondered that too, sometimes, but moreover Harry wondered how Voldemort understood what he meant when no one else did.

“Is that common?” Harry asked, feeling like a First Year again, facing down the dog from hell.

“No,” Voldemort said, eyes glittering unnaturally in the low light. “It’s not common at all.”

“Ah,” Harry mused. “I guess I’ve never been very good at being a person.”

Voldemort studied him right back. “Neither have I,” the man said. It wasn’t comradery. It was just a fact.

Harry hummed in agreement, looking around the room curiously as he interacted with this dream for the first time. It was definitely Doctor Welsh’s office, but shadows stuck to the walls, flickering ominously. He wondered if this was Voldemort’s dream or his. Harry’s eyes landed on the swinging pendulum trinket.

“Newton’s Cradle,” Voldemort murmured, following Harry’s line of sight.

“Muggles really are extraordinary,” Harry replied. He ignored Voldemort’s suppressed snarl.

“You’re on the cusp of life, Harry,” Voldemort stated suddenly as he leaned back into his wingback, looking as if he were eating a plush fruit for his expression was so smugly delectable. “So many excellent experiences before you. First kiss, first love, first job, first everything. Aren’t you _excited_?” The man drawled, obviously disgusted with firsts.

“I’ve already had my first kiss,” Harry answered, surprised as the words tumbled out of his mouth. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say.

Voldemort’s eyes glimmered. “Oh?” He asked. The shadows on the walls flickered.

Harry hummed again. “Draco Malfoy. He kissed me this year,” Harry told him, not sure why he was.

A muscle twitched on Voldemort’s face, like a mask momentarily lapsing and showing the monster beneath – too quickly to catch a look but long enough to have seen it happen.

“Did you want it?” Voldemort crooned, suggestive, appearing amused. The shadows grew longer.

“No,” Harry answered, watching the man’s reaction with fascination. It normally took a lot to get under Voldemort’s skin, but he had. Harry wondered how. “I ruined him.”

Voldemort smirked darkly, the shadows in the office still growing. “Good boy,” Voldemort whispered, his clipped, cultivated accent sharper than usual. “I thought your secrets were only for loved ones. Am I a loved one, Harry?”

Harry thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say loved one. I don’t feel like you’ve ever been loved by anyone. Why should it start with me now?”

“I would say the same for you, but it appears you now have a mutt of your own panting at your feet,” Voldemort answered, the words biting despite his pleasant tone. Harry doesn’t like Voldemort threatening Sirius.

“Have you ever had a dog?” Harry asked, suddenly uncomfortable, skin itching under the scrutiny of Voldemort’s gaze.

Voldemort frowned. “No,” he stated. Then, to Harry’s surprise, he continued. “I did have a bunny for a few minutes. Then I strung it from the rafters. Rather alike to your kitten, I might say, though perhaps from the other side of the glass. I do have a snake, though. She’s hardly a pet.”

“I like snakes,” Harry answered honestly. Two secrets in one day. Harry is impressed with himself.

“Would you like to see her?” Voldemort asked smoothly.

“Unless she can come here, not really,” Harry replied just as easily.

Voldemort laughed. “You don’t have to fear me, Harry. If I wanted to kill you –”

“I feel like we’re going in circles,” Harry cut him off. “Long circles that take years, but around and around all the same.”

Voldemort looked bitter that Harry had interrupted and waved his hand. A massive python slowly melted into the room, blurry at first but clearer with each passing moment.

“I didn’t know nāgas enjoyed human company,” Harry stated into the room.

Voldemort looked at him irritably as the snake hissed, _‘I’m not a n_ _āga you stupid boy!_ ’

Harry looked at it in surprise. He didn’t know this snake could understand English.

‘ _My mistake_ ,’ Harry answered apologetically in the strange language. ‘ _May I ask what you are_?’

Voldemort inhaled sharply then, the room caving in as if over a sinkhole. Harry watched in surprise as the man reared back, expression haunted, and the dream ended abruptly.

Harry sat up in bed, wondering what it was he’d said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually quite like Draco Malfoy as a character provided he is developed, but I have a feeling that if Draco was never pushed to evolve then he would have become a monster. There are many wealthy, privileged brats in the world who are taught that everything they can see and touch is theirs to have and own (irregardless of their prey's autonomy). 
> 
> In terms of this chapter, I've tried to write it as choppy and dissociative as Harry feels when becoming Seen; hopefully I've managed to convey that. The next chapter will see an evolution of Harry's personality and return to humour as he comes to terms with treatment.


	10. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry uncovers a bit more of what he wants (oh my) and what he is (oh dear).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh you wonderful darlings, thank you so much for your reviews, kudos, bookmarks, subscribes and reads. I love it all so much - seriously, you're all amazing <3

When Harry woke again later in the morning, it was if a veil had been pulled from his eyes. He inhaled softly through his nose, the clarity of the room sparkling, watching the dust particles dance in the early beams of light. A stillness filled his mind, smoothing out the crinkles of the last school year.

When Harry got better, he hadn’t expected it to be all at once. But, in that moment, Harry didn’t feel like ripping off his flesh and crawling out of his own body for the first time in over a year. He felt ripples of emotion scatter across his chest, aware but not painfully so. Laughing lightly, wondrously, as his heart soothed.

Perhaps it was because Sirius and Hermione finally understood. Saw him for what he was and, though they fought at first, they didn’t run screaming. Or perhaps Harry had just missed talking to Voldemort. He didn’t put too much stock into that last one.

Harry sat at the kitchen table and watched Sirius talk. Harry hadn’t quite realised how intense Sirius was before, the man beaming and chattering and overall brighter than the sun. Insane, yes, but that was a trademark Black trait. Sirius was something else. He understood why his parents made the man his godfather. Or would it be dogfather? The thought had Harry smiling. 

“Harry,” Sirius said suddenly, tone solemn and eyes creased. Harry tilted his head, considering, listening with crystal clarity. “I’m sorry about the… _Thing_ with Hermione yesterday. I didn’t mean to tell her everything, it just… I had to speak to _someone_ about it and I didn’t realise you hadn’t told her because you two spend so much time together and I just… I couldn’t stop talking once I got started. I’m sorry, Harry,” Sirius ended lamely, looking very much like a kicked dog.

Harry looked at Sirius in surprise. “I understand,” Harry replied slowly, considering. “It is… Difficult to hold those secrets in, I’m coming to realise. If anything, I expected you to talk to Remus about it but I don’t mind you told Hermione. I trust her implicitly, as I do with Remus.”

Sirius looked as if slapped. “You expected me to blab?” Sirius asked, heartbroken.

“You’re not a saint, Sirius,” Harry answered quietly, smiling softly. “I trusted you with that information and, in turn, I trust who you tell. Personally I wouldn’t exactly go parading that information around, but you have my permission to discuss it. I love you, Sirius, and I love Remus and Hermione. I hope you all love me enough to not walk away.”

“Holy fuck, Harry,” Sirius breathed suddenly, approaching him rapidly. Two warm, heavy hands clapped on Harry’s shoulders and he looked into Sirius’ icy blue eyes with a smile. Sirius then wrapped Harry in a bone-crushing hug. “Merlin, I thought I’d lost you for a while there,” the man muttered into Harry’s shoulder, his voice sounding suspiciously thick. “Does it have anything to do with Hermione? You too have been awfully close lately.”

Harry pushed on the man’s strong chest with open palms, eyebrows drawn together and mouth twisted in confusion. “Hermione? How so?” Harry asked, baffled by Sirius’ words.

“Like – you know,” Sirius began, grinning wolfishly. “Don’t you _like_ her?”

Harry laughed then, a deep, wonderous noise that filled the room. Sirius smiled too, though a little unsurely. Harry liked that about Sirius, that the man was always willing to smile.

“Oh, no,” Harry chuckled. “Hermione knows that I’m gay. Well, probably gay. Asexual is not quite off the table just yet.”

Sirius reared back in surprise. “You’re – you’re what?” He asked, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find words to fill the room.

“Haven’t I told you?” Harry asked in surprise, not missing a beat. “Oh, well. I guess that counts as my secret for the day. Will you tell me one?” Harry continued nonchalantly, not interested in anything his godfather might have to say regarding Harry’s sexuality.

And wasn’t that an odd word for Harry to associate with himself. Sexuality. Harry had never really considered it before now. Though he supposed he should have; most of his peers were already well past the beginning stages of dating and now moving onto more serious relationships. It never interested Harry before.

“Will I – wait, _what_?” Sirius stuttered.

“A secret. I’ve told you lots, even though you didn’t really want to hear them,” Harry answered, beaming.

“Oh,” Sirius said, still looking a little sunstruck and taken aback. “Yeah, sure. Um…” Sirius was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know how you do this. I can’t think of anything,” Sirius said, deflating.

“A secret about my dad, then,” Harry encouraged. Why hadn’t he ever asked about his parents?

“Oh, I’ve got one!” Sirius chirped excitedly. “Your dad was an illegal Animagus like me. He was a stag,” Sirius said, grinning. “We used to take Moony to the Shrieking Shack during the full moon and we’d play with him to take his mind off the transition. Wormtail came too, but that was before we knew he was a disgusting traitor, obviously.” The words were said with very little heat; Sirius seemed to get over his rage of the betrayal (though forever heartbroken) after snapping Wormtail in two.

Harry laughed softy in amusement. “That’s excellent,” Harry murmured. “I would have loved to have seen that.”

Sirius looked at Harry oddly. “Not Hermione, but definitely someone. Who?” The man teased.

Harry flushed darkly. He wasn’t sure why Sirius was pressing the matter. Harry doesn’t like _anyone_ like that. “No one,” Harry said perhaps a bit too defensively as he turned away, though amusing himself at the thought of saying _You Know Who._

“Ah, denial,” Sirius swooned dramatically. “Let me know when you’ve given in.”

Harry flushed even harder. There was no way in the seven layers of hell he was going to tell his godfather if his mind spontaneously imploded and he fell in love with a Dark Lord.

And suddenly unsure why he was even thinking of Voldemort in the first place.

* * *

Harry decides that he doesn’t want to dream of Voldemort anymore.

The only solution he can think of is to learn Occlumency as Dumbledore had once mentioned. It would be all good and fine if Harry just wished to himself that he couldn’t reach out to Voldemort in his dreams, but Harry feels odd about that. Like it would break a connection that he had only just really started to understand. So, instead, Harry turned to Remus instead of Sirius, for obvious reasons, to teach him the ancient technique.

“Occlumency?” Remus asked in surprise, setting aside his book and peering up at Harry. Harry sat down across the kitchen table from Remus and nodded, wringing his wrists.

“Those dreams that I told Sirius about,” Harry began slowly, not doubting for a moment that Sirius told Remus, “I’ve been having them nonstop for a year. I would like them to stop.”

Remus blinked at Harry for a few moments.

“Even if we start now,” Remus replied, “I doubt we could progress enough in a single day to prevent a dream tonight.”

Harry shrugged. “You’re a good teacher,” he offered.

Remus laughed disbelievingly. “Well okay, then,” the man agreed, eyebrows drawn together. “Let’s get started.”

* * *

Harry expected some kind of action right off the bat. Perhaps he would drink a potion that slowed his thought process or perhaps he would allow Remus to transfigure himself into an ant to experience the feeling of limited thoughts.

Instead, Remus changed the library rug into a large mat for both of them to sit on and began teaching Harry the art of meditation.

“It’s an important step to becoming an animagus,” Remus intoned lowly as they both sat in the darkened library, heavy drapes pulled over the windows to reduce as much outside influence as possible. “Sirius is actually quite good at meditation. I suspect that’s half the reason he didn’t go completely insane in Azkaban. Your father, however, suffered from an extremely overactive imagination when it was not being occupied.”

Harry could empathise. Every time he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, he oft found himself falling into a mental tangent. Harry had spent so long in his own mind but never once had he asked it to stop for a moment, to relax and not overcomplicate or overthink. Despite his projected appearance of calm, Harry often found his mental state unstable like the swells of an oceanic storm; violent, ill-tempered and unpredictable.

“The goal is not to numb or dissociate yourself,” Remus continued in a calm tone, keeping his eyes closed even as Harry peeked up at the man. “But rather welcome the thoughts as they come and then gently move them along. Your mind will begin to understand in about twenty minutes or so as your body relaxes.”

Twenty minutes turned out to be rather optimistic. It took two hours of Remus’ relaxed guidance to get Harry anywhere near thoughtless. At last, Harry felt himself relax into his crossed legs, his shoulders held back slightly but muscles released from tension he didn’t even know he was carrying.

“Now open your eyes,” Remus’ voice filtered through his consciousness and Harry obeyed, slowly lifting his eyelids and watching as the man came into focus.

Remus whispered something inaudible and Harry felt the werewolf slip into his mind, a presence that was almost alarming. But Harry fully trusted Remus ( _and wasn’t that an odd concept_ ) and he didn’t fight it.

“Recognise the feeling of my consciousness in your mind,” Remus was saying, sounding as if under water. “I’m not hostile, but I’m still foreign. If your mind is not relaxed when I do this, it will either hurt beyond comprehension or leave you jumbled for days, so continue breathing and dismissing your thoughts. Once you have settled, follow the path I’m taking and take special care where your mind ends and mine begins.”

Harry listened to Remus in a half-trance, imagining he was trailing behind a ghost as he watched, in an odd bodiless way, Remus wander through his mind. Remus didn’t pick at his memories, which Harry was grateful for, but he was still intrusive enough in Harry’s mind to set off alarm bells.

“Good,” Remus whispered into the room. “One of the greatest skills of an Occlumen is to not to alert the invading mind that you have become aware of their presence. Your thoughts are all focused on me at the moment and I can feel it, your consciousness tracking me through your mind. Try and back off a little.”

Harry did as he was told and was surprised to note, despite not being able to ‘see’ Remus anymore with his mind’s eye, that he was still able to recognise where and what Remus was doing.

“It’s a difficult concept to grasp, but this is your mind and you are holding all the cards,” Remus continued. “The invading mind will try and pretend that’s not the case. But this is you, through and through, and the only thing the invader can do is try and manipulate you into thinking that you don’t have control. Memories will always float to the surface but you can decide how they’re remembered or in what direction to send the invader next. If you focus on my intent rather than my location, you may be able to interpret my goal.”

Harry wasn’t sure exactly how to do that, but he considered Remus’ energy and existence in his mind for a moment and an odd feeling washed over his mind. Remus was looking for something. A memory. _Dementor_ , whispered in his mind, as he heard Remus calling out for the memory to surface.

Remus was looking for the memory of their first encounter, when he confiscated the pickled Dementor from Harry. It was an innocuous memory, one that Harry didn’t feel protective of as the man had experienced it with him, but it was still surprising to discover.

“What I’m doing, right now,” Remus mumbled, sounding strained, “Is trying to suggest a memory to you. This will cause you to consider it and thus bring it up for my review. Try and ignore the thought, like before, and push it away.”

It was even harder than the two hours it took for Harry to relax, but he managed it. At last, Remus slowly slipped out of Harry’s mind with an exhausted sigh.

Harry looked at the older man, noticing a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and sure he looked the same, and smiled. Remus returned Harry’s tentative raise of lips with a grin of his own.

“That was spectacular, Harry,” Remus said at last, rolling his shoulders and wincing when his back cracked loudly. “While you seem to struggle with relaxing your mind, you are very intuitive when it comes to mental instructions, especially defensive tactics. I would say that the hardest part of Occlumency for you will be getting you to relax enough at first, rather than the mental manipulations which is normally the harder bit for students. I’ll teach you some yoga as well, as this helps teach you how to mediate while avoiding distractions caused by movement.”

Harry sighed gently and, despite a light headache buzzing in the back of his mind, he felt fully relaxed.

He may just be able to do this.

* * *

The summer passed by in a haze of meditation and yoga. Harry was surprised to note that the slow stretching was harder than he thought, having dismissed the movements at first, and was pleased by the light toning of his muscles. He didn’t dream of Voldemort again after his birthday (and the man’s odd retreat) and this fact relieved Harry immensely. While part of Harry missed the madman in the way someone might miss a cancelled soap opera, he was also glad to have the continuous stress extracted from his life.

Even Sirius joined in on the pair on occasion and Harry realised that his godfather, who had seemed like a constant of blind happiness in his life, was actually severely depressed. The man benefited greatly from the long yoga sessions and meditations, eventually calming down into a relaxed (albeit still nutter) version of himself.

Remus and Sirius appeared closer than ever.

Just after his birthday, Harry’s adopted parents decided that their charge was ready to begin his animagus training and purchased the required materials from a reliable shop. Harry found himself amused by the need to hold a mandrake leaf in his mouth for a month, the sudden inability to speak near soothing as Remus would ask a question or Sirius would begin a boisterous conversation and he only had to point at his mouth as if to say, _I’m sorry I have a leaf in my mouth can’t talk right now please come back to me in three weeks_.

It was refreshing, honestly.

At last, Harry just had to wait for a thunderstorm. Sirius was loudly verbal about his disappointment at the clear forecast and Remus sighed when the only scheduled thunderstorm corresponded with the full moon; that had been their last chance before Harry began his Seventh Year. So Harry made an executive decision to floo his small family to Venezuela, the lightening capital of the world. Remus and Sirius could do with a vacation as well, Harry noted, as the pair had been working full time with Harry over the summer.

While sitting comfortably in a small cabin on a mountain side, Harry drank the animagus potion and relaxed into his small chair as the riotous sounds of a clapping thunderstorm shook the forest. Sirius had changed into the Grim early on and eagerly sat on his haunches, panting at Harry with excitement as Remus carefully led Harry through the changes. A small bath of salt water gently touched Harry’s feet and rippled lightly as the cabin shook in the raging thunderstorm.

“In case you turn into a jellyfish,” Remus had explained not long ago.Harry felt lucky for having such considerate parents.

“Close your eyes and focus on the feeling tugging at your spirit,” Remus soothed as Harry settled. “You won’t see the shape at first, just a small blurry image. Let it come to you, sniff you or taste you or even just sit by your side. Let it grow comfortable with you and you with it.”

Harry did as he was told and focused on the large shape emerging in his mind. It was an odd figure, a blurry silhouette of an animal he had never seen before. Harry felt the shape curl around him curiously, smelling and tasting and even sitting by his side all at once. Harry smiled softly at the indescribable creature, the odd shape too undistinguished to recognise.

“Now offer yourself to it,” Remus continued once Harry smiled.

Harry nudged the shape softly and felt himself being pulled in as if he were falling very slowly into a well, the waters deep but safe. Harry brushed aside his thoughts as he considered the feeling of his body shifting and his mind growing simpler, instinctive.

“Oh, my,” Remus stated abruptly.

Sirius yapped an alarmed noise.

Harry opened his eyes and the first thing he noticed was the brightness of the small room. With his human eyes, the room had been a dim wooden shack lit by only a single oil candle. Now, his sensitive eyes overexposed the wood beams into near daylight.

“That’s just weird,” Sirius said bluntly, having turned back into himself immediately. He delicately took a step back from Harry, wand held loosely in his hand.

“Not weird,” Remus admonished immediately, throwing Sirius an irritable glare. “Just… _Different_.”

Harry cocked his head at the pair, still understanding the words clearly. He could hear the rumbles of a lightning strike far away and the individual taps of each raindrop on the tin roof.

“Well, I guess you could say that it’s certainly _rare_ to be a magical creature, such as a Grim. But I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a Chimera,” Remus eventually added diplomatically despite his wavering voice.

Harry turned his head to the nearest window (marvelling at the feeling of using four feet) and blinked at the image staring back at him. In the reflection of the window, staring back at Harry, was a large lion head, a massive mane of tousled fur gently brushing his face. His triangular nose was perhaps as big as Harry’s hand when he was human and golden, intelligent eyes glittered in the candle light. A flickering caught Harry’s eye and he noticed an odd tail swishing behind himself.

A snake. His tail was a _snake_. The long king cobra waved in the air as its tongue flickered curiously, unperturbed by the swishing motions and focusing on its surroundings with interest. Harry thought hard for a moment and was rewarded when he was able to slip his mind into both the snake and the lion, watching his surroundings with alarming ease. Harry was then grateful for his meditations, for the sudden range of perspective would surely have given him a migraine without.

A third perspective began to push at Harry’s mind and he realised with a startled jolt that there was _another_ set of eyes available to view through. He allowed the mental intrusion and was alarmed to note that, with this new vision, he was also looking at the back of his lion head and the snake at his rear.

Harry returned his focus to the lion’s eyes and turned slowly to see in the window what lay between his broad lion shoulders and the hooded snake on his end.

A goat.

_How odd_ , Harry thought to himself in delight.

Large curled horns adorned the goat’s head and it enjoyed a good two feet of neck sprouting from between Harry’s shoulders. The goat baa’d suddenly and then burped, a small lick of flame escaping its lips as its reptilian-like eyes focused in slightly different directions.

_A fire breathing goat,_ Harry corrected, his shoulders rumbling with a cat’s imitation of a laugh and gently trembling the goat perched on his back. _How intriguing._

Harry is a monster, a creature of ancient memory and deep phobia. A Chimera. He had read of such creatures, though whether they were real or not was a matter of philosophy as the magical breed had not been seen in millennia. Though, Harry supposed his transformation led _some_ credence to the existence of such a beast.

“Chimeras are omens of destruction and chaos,” Sirius then informed Remus in a clipped tone, leaning back and looking extremely wary of the drooling, fire-breathing goat.

“I thought we established that omens are nonsense?” Remus sighed and then the two were bickering.

_An omen of chaos,_ Harry echoed to himself in humorous near-disbelief, ignoring the noise of his adopted parents arguing.

_Who would have thought?_

* * *

A package came via owl two weeks before Harry was scheduled to begin school. Harry looked at the strange parcel, wrapped in velvety leather and tied with expensive ribbon.

Sirius crowed, “Ha, Potter!” Looking as if the cat who had caught the canary.

Harry blinked at him in surprise, alarmed by his godfather’s reaction.

“That’s a courting gift. And barely a month after your coming-of-age birthday, you cheeky dog. Looks like you’re on someone’s mind after all,” Sirius elaborated, leaning his chair onto its back two legs and failing to stifle a look of infuriating smugness.

Harry paled. If it were to be a gift from Voldemort, Harry wasn’t sure if he should open it in front of Sirius. Voldemort had an odd sense of humour.

It was indeed a gift from Voldemort. Though why the monster was sending gifts in courting wrapping, Harry wouldn’t know. Harry unwrapped the parcel carefully, lifting the delicately carved wooden lid and then slamming it shut swiftly.

“Go on, then,” Sirius badgered. “Let me see.”

“No,” Harry retorted shortly, face twisting. Harry wrapped his arms around the box protectively despite wanting to throw it out the window.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Harry, I’ve seen every embarrassing courtship gift under the sun. You should have seen what your father tried to give your mother,” the man laughed a little manically, lost in a memory.

“It’s not embarrassing,” Harry said, despite blushing. It wasn’t. But Sirius wouldn’t understand. To be honest, Harry didn’t either.

“Then let me see!” Sirius demanded, launching across the room.

Harry squawked and toppled with Sirius as he was tackled, the box tumbling out of his hands. Harry watched, face ashen in despair, as the head of Draco Malfoy rolled across the floor.

Sirius screamed.

* * *

Sirius made Harry put the box over the head on the floor. It reminded Harry of the time Aunt Petunia made Harry put a water glass over a spider in the bathtub, demanding that he leave it there until the spider died. Harry doesn’t think Malfoy’s head could get any deader.

Sirius quickly left the kitchen and sat in the library, head between his knees as he tried to calm his breathing. Harry followed behind, disappointed that the brief month of peace between them had been ruined so soon. Sirius alternated between hyperventilating and gagging, as if not sure if he should breath or vomit.

“Harry,” Sirius finally stated after a long time of breathing and gagging.

“Yes?” Harry asked, turning his head to appraise his godfather.

“Why – why is Draco Malfoy’s head in our kitchen?” The man choked out, looking all the more green for it.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly. “Well, I have an idea. I can’t believe it’s in the kitchen; we _eat_ in there,” Harry muttered exasperatedly.

“You have an idea?” Sirius asked a little hysterically.

“Draco Malfoy kissed me this year,” Harry sighed, feeling like he’s been repeating himself a lot nowadays.

“ _Malfoy?_ ” Sirius squawked, looking horrified.

Harry recalled the precise moment Malfoy cornered him in the Slytherin dormitory a few months ago, before all that drama with the Death Eaters.  “Yes,” Harry said distantly, shuddering at the memory.

“Hey,” Sirius called suddenly, placing a hand over Harry’s. “What happened?” There was genuine concern in his eyes. Harry was amazed that Sirius could express so much even when he said so very little.

“I didn’t want him to, but he tried anyway,” Harry said, allowing the greasy feeling of disgust spread across his chest.

Sirius looked furious. “That little shit tried to –” Sirius cut off, eyes darkening and mouth twisting. Harry watched Sirius curiously, not sure what this new emotion was. Fury or hatred, rage or fear? Or a combination of all four?

“You should have told me, Harry,” Sirius said then. “So I could have decapitated the twat myself.”

Harry blinked at Sirius. That wasn’t what he was expecting. “But why?” Harry enquired, mystified.

“Harry,” Sirius sighed deeply, his other hand wrapping around Harry’s scarred left. “How did you feel when Malfoy touched you?” Sirius had dark shadows in his eyes. A little bit like Voldemort, but different. Protective, not territorial. Harry played along, if only to understand.

“I didn’t like it. He was following me around a bit before then, touching my back, sometimes my hands. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. And then he kissed me and tried to undress me and I panicked,” Harry said blankly. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sirius swore, releasing Harry’s hands to press the heels of his palms into his eyes. “That’s at least sexual harassment, if not assault, Harry,” Sirius said suddenly, fire in his eyes. “I know you have a habit of understatement, so I’m going to assume it’s at least fifty percent worse than what you’re saying.”

“But that’s how mum and dad got together,” Harry answered unsurely. “Isn’t that just how it works?”

Sirius looked appalled. “No, it was _nothing_ like that for James and Lily! James – sure he was persistent, but he would never… I mean, he did kiss Lily once and she slapped him but –” Sirius cut off, looking at a loss for words.

“How is it any different than what you do, annoying Remus and embarrassing him in public?” Harry pressed, seeking the boundaries, looking for the rules.

Sirius shifted uncomfortably, then. “I… I can’t really explain,” he said. “It’s one of those things that you just _know_. You can get a feeling, most times, if a person is playing along or if they’re not interested. But if they explicitly say no, then you stop. I imagine that Malfoy had no pretences about how you felt about the matter; you’re not exactly shy when it comes to telling people to fuck off.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Harry stated, frowning. Sirius wasn’t making much sense.

“What about this new suitor of yours?” Sirius pressed darkly, eyes narrowing. “Is this unwanted too?”

Harry opened his mouth, paused, and closed it.

He doesn’t know.

“Who is it, Harry? It’s not exactly a thing to give other people’s heads as courting gifts,” Sirius said sarcastically, scowling.

“No?” Harry asked, tone surprised. “Oh.” Harry’s not stupid, he knows it isn’t meant to be like that. But Harry couldn’t find it in himself to say Voldemort’s name. Not when Sirius had finally come back around.

Sirius looked at him, face twisting, disturbed. “No, Harry,” Sirius stated firmly. “It’s really important to me that you know that. Murdering people and gifting their body parts is illegal _and_ immoral, even if they’re little shits that deserve it. Ask your boyfriend to stop. Though God knows it only makes sense you’d attract someone as twisted as you.” Sirius wasn’t being mean. Despite the horror of the situation, Sirius almost sounded amused.

Harry flushed a heated red (the thought of calling Voldemort a ‘boyfriend’ almost making him burst into laughter – he wondered if that would get under Voldemort’s skin too) and he nodded, escaping the library before Sirius could say anything else.

* * *

Up until the last few days of summer, Harry received an odd assortment of gifts from Voldemort, of which included Dumbledore’s cursed, blackened hand with a gaudy ring on it (how Voldemort got that out of the man’s grave, Harry didn’t even want to consider), Slughorn’s tongue (if the note was to be believed), and what appeared to be a femur bone with _Delores_ etched on it.

Part of Harry was secretly pleased that Voldemort had found out about that one, but he berated himself for indulging in serial-murderer-trophy-behaviour and threw everything away, with the exception of the ring, which he kept on a chain under his shirt to avoid Sirius’ inevitable teasing. Besides, there was something ethereal about the ring that called Harry, a smell of magic that he’d never scented before. He liked having it on his person. It was the only gift that Harry appreciated.

Harry quickly became tired of receiving body parts like a cat owner receiving dead treats from their pet. He gave in and wrote Voldemort a letter, thanking him for the gestures but letting Voldemort know that gifts were clearly not the man’s strong suit. Harry sent Voldemort a list of his hobbies and recommended that Voldemort pick something suitable.

Sure, it was wildly cheeky, but if Voldemort was going to go through the effort of courtship gifts, he might as well get Harry a set of scales for potions while he was at it.

* * *

“I’m not sending you school supplies,” Voldemort said into the dark room. Harry opened his eyes and realised that he was back in Doctor Welsh’s office. Harry hadn’t dreamed of this place since Voldemort had recoiled on his birthday and Harry’s own mediations seemed to help prevent the nightly events as the dreams had stopped for a while.

To Harry’s surprise, Voldemort looked furious, eyes glittering spitfire red and mouth pursed in a tight line.

“Okay,” Harry said, waving his hand. “Whatever works for you. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not _shopping_ for you, brat,” Voldemort sneered, voice dangerously quiet. “I’m making a _point_.”

“What kind of point?” Harry asked curiously, watching Voldemort seethe.

Voldemort laughed suddenly, the tension in the room breaking minutely. “You’re so oblivious I find myself wondering why I even try at all,” Voldemort intoned deeply, perfectly manicured nails tapping the mahogany desk in a rhythmic tempo. “Perhaps I should just show you.”

“Show me?” Harry echoed. Voldemort scowled darkly and Harry remembered how the man hated when Harry repeated what he said in the form of a question. “Okay, show me.” Harry didn’t know what Voldemort meant, but was curious all the same.

Voldemort stopped tapping his nails on the desk and all was silent between the two. Voldemort’s eyes flashed, reflecting candles in the room that weren’t there, and a slow smirk spread across his lips. For a moment, Harry wished he could take the words back. Strangely enough, not Very Hard.

_‘How long have you known you could speak Parseltongue?’_ Voldemort asked instead in the snake language, eyes studying Harry as if he were a fascinating specimen.

Harry shrugged, not rising to the bait, and suppressed a shudder at the slippery syllables escaping Voldemort’s lips. The odd language certainly didn’t sound like _that_ coming from a snake’s mouths. _Could one even have a British accent when speaking Parseltongue?_ Harry mused.

‘ _Come now,’_ Voldemort crooned, taunting, always taunting. ‘ _Don’t be shy_.’

Harry peered through his eyelashes at Voldemort in amusement, holding out as he smiled charmingly.

‘ _Talk,’_ Voldemort demanded suddenly, eyes sharpening as he laced the word with compulsion.

Harry stopped smiling but didn’t speak.

Voldemort flicked two fingers and a silent spell hit Harry squarely in the chest, making him wheeze upon the force of the impact. A soft, seductive voice in his head sang over and over, _my darling talk to me in Parseltongue Harry come now love just a few words let’s hear it –_

“I don’t appreciate being Imperiused,” Harry stated, white knuckles griping the arms of the chair tightly, expression as relaxed as possible. “And you have no right to command me.”

Voldemort looked shocked. Well, the most shocked Harry had ever seen him. His black pupils constricted minutely in a sea of blood red.

“I find myself more intrigued with each passing day,” Voldemort whispered sweetly, sardonically, as the spell evaporated. “Though you’ll find that I have the right to command as much as I want from you.”

“How so?” Harry asked, not protesting, wanting to see where this would go.

“You’re mine,” Voldemort laughed, as if amused that Harry didn’t know yet.

“I’m no one’s,” Harry answered firmly, nails digging into leather. “Only my own.”

“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort drawled, tasting the words reverently, head tilting with unnatural smoothness as he appraised Harry. “You’re all mine and you don’t even know it. You will soon enough.”

‘ _Fuck you,’_ Harry answered simply, finally in Parseltongue, wondering what Voldemort would do. The man didn’t seem to take challenges to his control very well.

Partially anticipated though thoroughly unexpected, Voldemort launched over the desk and slammed into Harry. Harry gasped in aching pain as his breath was knocked out of him, Voldemort pulling him out of his chair and rolling across the floor. Harry found himself pressed into the dark, thick shadows of the room, Voldemort pinning him down, red eyes staring down through inky darkness and trapping Harry within their hellfire light.

Harry didn’t realise that one could do this in dreams. Touch, feel, taste all within the metaphysical. It made sense, though, as those were sensations perceived by the mind. Harry lay wrapped in the darkness that was Voldemort, pinning him down, unnaturally pale forearms braced on either side of his head.

Long fingers dipped under the neck of Harry’s shirt and pulled out the ring from its hiding place, the chain hanging low between them. Voldemort smirked, infuriatingly smug, as his gaze flickered from the cracked black rock to Harry’s blown pupils.

“Fuck me?” Voldemort enunciated smoothly in English, tone sweet as honey. It was a threat, a promise, and death wrapped in one, a pretty present seeping from Voldemort’s lips and dripping into Harry’s soul.

Harry couldn’t help it – he shivered. A mouth descended on his with the viciousness of a cobra strike and Harry gasped in surprise, not having expected this turn of events but opening to it all the same.

The mouth was cruel, sharp, biting, more than anything Harry had ever experienced or felt and it was too much too much too much not enough – Harry arching into the frame above, mind reeling, eyes rolling back in his head and a moan swallowed from the back of his throat by another as a tongue plunders his mouth, tasting death and ashes and magic –

Voldemort pushing him down cruelly, a hand ripping at Harry’s hair jerking his head back and a knee between his legs, another hand yanking a trembling leg up over Voldemort’s hip and grinding down and claiming and _possessive_. Harry inhales sharply as vicious teeth sink through flesh on the crook of his neck in time with a cruel roll of hips and he’s crying out hoarsely as he arches into the touch –

And then he’s awake suddenly, drenched in sweat and shaking roughly. Harry feels his fingers skitter across the bedspread, making sure Voldemort wasn’t there with him, panting and so, so terribly aroused as panic flashes through his mind.

Harry felt heat curl in his abdomen, sweat pants uncomfortably tight and his chest clenching, wanting to find Voldemort and finish what the asshole started. To scratch back and make the untouchable Dark Lord as bent out of shape as Harry felt.

Harry stopped suddenly, a feeling of surprise and understanding dousing the flame as if he had been dumped into a cold lake. He focused on his churning emotions, like Welsh taught him (when Welsh was Welsh and not a Dark Lord), and came to a Terrible Conclusion.

_Harry wants Lord Voldemort_.

* * *

Harry’s not sure how, but the marks from his dreams carried through into reality. Harry moaned miserably over the scratches on his chest and the scabbed imprint of teeth on the column of his neck, possessive blue fingerprint bruises littering his hips and thighs. Harry hid his swollen bottom lip and marked neck from Sirius and Remus by claiming to be sick and staying in bed all day.

Harry buried himself in cushions and wallowed miserably.

_Want_. Harry doesn’t understand the word nor the meaning, not really. Even though Harry wishes a lot, Harry has truly wanted very little in his entire life. Harry knows of only one thing he’s ever truly wanted – a family. But that was a long time ago, he has one now, and Voldemort would never give Harry something like a family. Harry snorted at the idea. Voldemort was simply Voldemort. A plague, destruction, hellfire, the absence of everything and everyone. Harry would consider him the devil if he believed in such things. Perhaps he’d just have to settle on Death God.

Harry found himself inexplicitly drawn to Voldemort. He always had been, from that moment at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Harry doesn’t think it’s love. Perhaps lust, but not love. How did one know when it was love? Maybe it could be one day.

Harry doesn’t want to love Lord Voldemort.

* * *

“It was very rude of you to leave,” Voldemort said in sly amusement the moment Harry opened his eyes in Doctor Welsh’s office, tapping sharp nails on the desk once again. Harry can see a small line of his own skin still in the recesses of those nails; Voldemort hadn’t cleaned them.

Voldemort is cool, calm and collected.

Harry hates him for it.

Harry can’t look at him, can’t meet the monster’s eyes. He wonders what will happen if he shows Voldemort his animagus shape; will the monster in a man’s shell be frightened, scared, disgusted?

‘ _Why did you kiss me?_ ’ Harry asked hoarsely, only vaguely aware he’s not speaking English. His chest feels raw and sore from processing his thoughts and emotions all day. Harry doesn’t understand why he can’t hide from emotions, _why_ he has to process them when they felt like this. Harry watches the pendulum swing and wonders what Voldemort is playing at.

“Look at me,” Voldemort hissed. Harry’s eyes flickered up, too tired to fight.

“Good boy,” Voldemort whispered, appraising, Harry flinching at the words. “And as someone once said to me, why not?”

Harry frowned at him. “You should have told them that’s a cheap answer.”

Voldemort laughed, the coldness of his tone dropping the room temperature a few degrees. “Indeed,” he agreed. “Besides, I wanted to,” Voldemort continued flippantly, nails still clattering that annoying tempo on the desk. “Wanted to see how you would react. Rather well, I might say.”

“I don’t like being kissed,” Harry told him firmly, the way Sirius taught him how to say what he wanted without wishing. “Please don’t do it again.”

“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort tutted, pitying. “You never did learn how to lie. Besides, after your first kiss was so terrible, I thought I’d be the one to give you your first _good_ kiss. The kind that’ll have you wanting more.”

Harry scowled. “I’ve had enough of kissing for a lifetime, thank you,” Harry answered petulantly. Harry doesn’t care if he was being childish; Voldemort started it first. “And of talking about it. Why am I here?”

Voldemort considered Harry for a moment, fingers suddenly still. The silence was deafening.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Voldemort answered softly, dangerously. “This is your dream, not mine.”

“They’re not all mine,” Harry sighed, irritated, tired of being out in the open all of the time, so raw and obvious and malleable. “Some must be yours.” Harry hates the word Must, but he couldn’t imagine anything else to say.

“Oh, no, Harry,” Voldemort crooned darkly. “They’re _all_ yours. I think you just don’t know exactly how much you like me, dear.” Teasing, cruel, always so brutal. The hairs on Harry’s neck rose.

Harry stared at Voldemort, face ashen as he processed the information. _He_ was the one calling Voldemort each night? Or was Voldemort lying, trying to get under his skin and watch him bleed?

Harry suddenly didn’t care what the answer was. He reached out quickly and knocked the pendulum off the desk with the back of his hand, polished brass smashing to the floor, the fading dream warping around Voldemort’s Cheshire grin.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my.
> 
> But seriously, I really get a kick out of Remus being the responsible/sensitive parent harping on Sirius for judging Harry being an "omen". I don't know why, but domestic disputes between Remus (an outcast werewolf) and Sirius (dark mafia-like family/spent over a decade in supermax prison) really gets to me.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed :)


	11. Pygmalion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry extracts revenge, finds new friends, and introduces his beau to his dad (awkward).

Harry slipped into his seventh year with ease, now settled into being Seen.

To his surprise, Harry discovered that Voldemort has nearly gone quiet. Tom Riddle has settled into his role as Chief Advisor and now only appears at social functions for the barest of time required. And yet, the man has managed to maintain popularity, bearing a name now rife through the papers and magazines and local gossip.

Voldemort’s invasion of Hogwarts had truly rattled the Wizarding world, a society that had become twitchy when Voldemort once more returned to the ground after sacking the school. It horrified the public to know even their children were not safe where they slept, that Dumbledore had been toppled (quite literally – he had been dropped from the Astronomy Tower). Tom Riddle became a comfort, people calling for his election and removal of Minister Fudge, a terrified little man who continued to deteriorate with each passing day.

Harry nearly expected for the man to show up at a random interval, to arrive at the school and pester Harry or even push into his consciousness through the odd connection the pair shared. He didn’t. Harry did not dream of Voldemort after That Night.

No one remarked the disappearance of Malfoy, which Harry thought odd, but life continued uninterrupted and simple (perhaps no one missed the blond). Classes were easier than before now that Harry only needed to take four and he found himself able to focus on the teachers with single-minded dedication; he actually found himself semi-enjoying the wand waving, if only because of its novelty.

Harry thought that his wild magic might reject or diminish in the light of his meditations, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Harry has never been more focused when wishing, almost able to control the flowing stream of magic at the slightest suggestion.

The year passed by nearly peacefully, a surprising and refreshing experience for Harry. Hermione, of course, had decided to completely lose her mind and take every class possible while using a Ministry borrowed time turner (as she had since third year) and was utterly out of his hair for most of the year, except for their tradition of trading notes from time to time in the library. He wondered if the woman, for she was already at least a year and a half older than him due to the continued use of the time-turner, would keep in contact once they didn’t have to live together at school.

The only entertainment Harry had for the year involved researching Voldemort’s past and hunting down Voldemort’s horcruxes. Harry has no plans to destroy the soul containers, but it’s an interesting treasure hunt and he wonders if Voldemort knows what he’s doing. He highly doubts it, though, as the monster hasn’t bothered him.

It’s unfortunate that Dumbledore stripped the entire school of any information on horcruxes but being the adopted Heir to a Sacred Twenty-Eight (and infamously dark) family has some perks. Harry is able to simply owl-order horrifically dark books on immortality, which amuses him to no end. The books are fascinating and he’s soon led to read the trials of Herpo the Foul. Harry purchases a first edition diary written by the man (grateful that Sirius and Remus don’t have access to the Potter account statements because the price makes even Harry’s eyes water) and comes to the realisation that Voldemort has opened himself up to madness and instability for the sake of immortality. It seems awfully short sighted, as being immortal wouldn’t mean much if one were to be completely insane for it.

But Harry recalls that Voldemort somehow managed to absorb the boy who came out of the Chamber of Secrets and reasons that this would have most likely been his first horcrux. Harry finds himself reluctantly impressed. At aged sixteen, Voldemort had conquered magic beyond the realms of what most wizarding kind could ever hope to achieve in an entire lifetime.

As the sixteen-year-old boy would have been the largest piece of soul (Harry reasons that splitting the soul is like halving it and the more horcruxes are made, the smaller the soul gets by alarmingly exponential margins), then it would be sufficient evidence that reabsorbing it returned most of Voldemort’s mental and soul stability.

The books imply that the only way to reabsorb a horcrux is to feel genuine remorse for the murder, but Harry finds it near laughable that Voldemort feels sorry for murdering Moaning Myrtle. So there must be another way, some sort of soul-binding spell or potion or ritual. Harry doesn’t bother researching it as he assumes that Voldemort kept a copy of it somewhere and instead entertains himself by poking around Hogwarts.

Harry has absolutely no idea what kind of containers Voldemort has placed his soul shards in but Dumbledore reckoned there were at least six, if not seven. Harry reasons that the boy who came out of the Chamber of Secrets was one, so tick that off the list. The large ring under his robes used to be another one but it’s been long destroyed, so that makes either four or five remaining.

Harry figures that Voldemort would place at _least_ one in the castle, if only to mock Dumbledore, so he is pleased when he finds himself in a room on the Seventh Floor after politely asking a wall to show him _where Tom Riddle hid his treasures_.

It does not take long to identify the scent of black magic and Harry allows himself to be pulled, almost in a trance, to a dusty diadem with a large bird of prey decorating its face.

“Hello, there,” Harry whispered softly, careful not to touch nor disturb the heavily jewelled object.

The crown’s magic stirred very slightly, sluggishly, as if it had been asleep for a very long time and was slowly awakening from a rest.

“Would you mind terribly if you came with me?” Harry asked the diadem politely.

The diadem was very slow to respond, but eventually it reached out and Harry felt himself be wrapped by cursed magic. He felt his throat constrict, a little overwhelmed by the touch. It felt… Familiar.

 _‘Do you trust me?’_ Harry whispered to the diadem in Parseltongue, not wanting to frighten it.

The magic wrapped around Harry tightly. It wasn’t painful, but rather comforting. Harry took that as a yes. When he touched the crown, the revolting curse lacing its fine metals did not harm him; the horcrux held it back.

Harry very slowly placed the crown on his head, briefly wondering if he would die horrifically if he did so, but instead of being mauled he found himself chatting with the horcrux.

‘ _How do you speak my language?’_ The diadem enquired in Parseltongue in a voiceless, bodiless way, transmitting the thoughts into Harry’s head in a similar manner to the Sorting Hat.

 _‘I’m not sure,’_ Harry answered aloud into the room of junk.

There was a moment of pause as the horcrux rifled through Harry’s mind and then deep pleasure sunk through Harry’s head from the crown.

‘ _You are ours,’_ the horcrux whispered, caressing Harry’s mind.

‘ _I’ve been hearing that a lot,_ ’ Harry thought with a frown.

The horcrux did not answer, but it felt very amused in the same way that Voldemort constantly was. It made Harry a little annoyed. Of course the monster’s horcruxes would be as smug as the original.

Either way, Harry kept the horcrux in his trunk in the dormitories and it often advised him of where to find the others.

 _‘Check the Lestrange vaults_ ,’ the horcrux whispered into his head one day in that odd snake language.

During Yule break, Harry stopped by Gringotts. After a bit of posturing and demanding that Bellatrix Lestrange _nee Black’_ s property was _his_ property while the family rotted in Azkaban as he is Heir Black (Harry still can barely believe it worked), Harry found a cup.

Harry now had a chatty diadem, a cup that did not speak to him and seemed barely animated, and a broken ring. The diadem suspected that the cup was quiet because it had not been exposed to attention or magic for a very long time, unlike itself which lived in a castle full of magical children and had seen a fair bit of excitement the year before when the Death Eaters took over the school.

‘ _The locket is probably in a cave,’_ the diadem mused during the holiday. It still insists in only speaking in Parseltongue even though it never speaks aloud, only through Harry’s mind when resting on his head.

Harry doesn’t partially feel like cave diving or spelunking, so he decides to leave that one for the summer. That is, until Harry walked past Kreacher’s cupboard in the kitchens during the last week of Yule break. Harry felt himself drawn by that odd scent of Voldemort’s magic, of which Harry was getting better at recognising each day.

Harry stood in the kitchens in shock, holding the chain of a large, gaudy locket engraved with an intricate _‘S’_ and thought to himself in suspended, disbelieving amusement,

_Sure, why not?_

* * *

After Yule, Harry begins dreaming of Voldemort again. The dreams are soft and gentle, just little imprints of memory and their odd connection.

Voldemort and Harry are laying down in a field, backs stretched on a soft bed of grass and looking up into a cornflower blue sky. There’s a rotting shack not far away and Harry realises that, for the first time, Voldemort is the one instigating the dream. Harry does not know this place, but it is tranquil. They do not speak, instead just look up into the heavens and watch fluffy clouds pass by as long reeds of grass and heather sway in the wind.

It’s a nice dream, which Harry finds odd as Voldemort isn’t very nice at all.

Voldemort and Harry watch the fluffy clouds pass by and Harry sometimes lets his fingers lace through Voldemort’s. The monster doesn’t comment on it, instead he just adjusts his lithe fingers to allow the touch.

* * *

Harry felt the end of seventh year approach with abrupt suddenness.

Harry would feel sad, except he’s had a fabulous time at Hogwarts and there’s something delicious about the ringing finality of a degree. No more rules, no more wand waving. Harry’s not sure where he’ll go or what he’ll do next, but at least it won’t be under the stern glare of McGonagall and the insufferable sneer of Headmaster Snape.

On his final day in the Slytherin common rooms, Harry remembers that Bastet was murdered at the beginning of his life here and there’s a certain amount of poetic justice about her being murdered on his first day of Hogwarts and then avenged on his last.

Harry sweeps into the common rooms, always awash in that eerie lake-green, and approaches a gaggle of Seventh and Sixth Years chatting as they await the call to leave the castle and board the train. There’s Higgs, Urquhart, Vaisey, Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, Parkinson, Zabini, Greengrass, Nott, Davis and a few others that Harry’s never bothered to remember.

“Right,” Harry states, hands on his hips. The talk dies down immediately and every head turns to him, a sea of indifferent masks. “Who knew my kitten Bastet was going to be murdered? Hands up,” Harry commands, having gotten much better at compulsion.

All hands rose, even though the students struggled to keep their arms from obeying Harry’s command. Harry felt his lip twitch as a curl of cold hatred unfurled in his chest.

“And who participated? Hands stay up if you did,” Harry requested hollowly, arms crossing.

Only Parkinson, Crabble, Goyle, and Bulstrode’s hands remained in the air. Daphne Greengrass was blushing lightly, looking away as her eyes glittered suspiciously. Nott and Zabini looked horribly uncomfortable, mouths bowed into frowns while the other students shifted. The common room had gone deathly quiet.

Harry turned to the four who had murdered Bastet. “You will die by hanging. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But hanging it will be. And you will live your entire lives in fear of it.” The wish wove through the air and Parkinson paled dramatically, clearly the only one of the four clever enough to know that Harry wasn’t just threatening them; he had cursed them.

Harry nodded once and then began to walk off, feeling an odd knot in his heart begin to loosen. It was a knot made a long time ago and, until now, Harry hadn’t known it was there.

“Harry,” Daphne called out, racing after him. Harry turned to partially face the girl, unsure if he was remotely interested in what she had to say. Daphne caught Harry’s bicep and led him into an abandoned alcove of the common room.

“Yes?” Harry prompted, allowing himself to be seated in a leather chair across from Daphne.

“Malfoy… He was the one who came up with the idea. And convinced the other first years to do it,” Daphne whispered lowly, looking down as she twisted her hands. “Nott, Zabini and I – we told him to stop. She was just a _baby_.”

“She was,” Harry replied tonelessly.

“Malfoy threatened to tell his father that we were siding with a _Potter_ , that we were light sympathisers. And… Well, Mollie was going to be mentored by Narcissa Malfoy the summer after graduating and if there was a rumour that I was a _light supporter_ … I don’t know what she would have done to Mollie. Narcissa isn’t inherently a bad person, really. But Lucius is a rotten egg, through and through. What he commands, Narcissa does. I was scared for Mollie,” Daphne implored, eyes wide and bright blue irises shining with unshed tears. “Zabini and Nott are the same. We should have stopped him. But we were stupid and scared and thought that doing nothing was good enough. But it made us complicit.”

Harry watched Daphne struggle through her words, looking equally terrified of Harry and yet relieved, as if she had been bottling this up for a long time. And Harry supposed that she probably had.

“I’m so sorry,” Daphne whispered, wringing her wrists, not daring to look up at him. “She was a beautiful little thing. And you looked so horrible after that. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.”

Harry believed Daphne if only because he had wished Very Hard at the beginning of their chat that she would tell only the truth. Harry found himself surprised that Daphne, the girl who was doing her upmost to upstage her own second cousin for title of Slytherin Ice Queen, actually _cared._ How odd.

“Thank you,” Harry said. He pressed a scarred palm over Daphne’s twisting hands. “I believe you.”

Her relief was tangible.

* * *

Before he knows it, Harry is returning to Hogwarts to graduate a month after moving out of the castle. It’s a small ceremony under the summery sun and Harry catches a glimpse of Tom Riddle standing next to the Minister, a ridiculously overshadowed man nervously twisting a purple bowler hat in his hands.

Rumour has it Tom Riddle will run for Prime Minister. Whether the rumour is true or not, Harry will find out in August with the rest of the wizarding world when the campaigning season really begins.

Hermione is glaring at Tom Riddle as her name is called ( _Granger, Hermione_ ), a spiteful narrowing of her eyes as she completely dismisses the Minister of Magic in order to stare up at Voldemort hatefully. Tom Riddle watches her with light amusement, a sly smile curving his lips. Hermione’s diploma is nearly thicker than a rolled fifteen metre essay. She refuses to shake his hand.

Harry ignores the monster when he rises to the podium to receive his diploma ( _Potter-Black, Harry_ ) from the Minister of Magic, a rolled scroll listing his academic achievements. The scroll is thin. Harry doesn’t mind.

Harry shakes the Minister’s sweaty palm and wipes his hand on his robes before turning to Voldemort. Harry pointedly stares straight ahead, at the man’s chest, and slips his hand into Voldemort’s outstretched one. There’s a moment of spark, of electricity racing through his veins at the point of contact that exists in both their dreams and reality, then Harry is pulling away and trotting down the stairs on the side of the stage.

Harry can feel Voldemort’s eyes on the back of his head as he walks away from the small podium and he smiles brightly to himself.

He can almost _taste_ the man’s fury.

* * *

"No," Harry said.

"Yes," Sirius answered.

"Unconditionally no," Harry stated.

"Absolutely yes," Sirius retorted.

"You can't make me," Harry breathed, eyes wild.

"You wanna bet?" Sirius snarled.

"What?" Hermione cut through, poking her head through the fireplace.

Harry and Sirius turned to Hermione, floo calling in not a moment earlier.

"Sirius wants me to go to a _gala_ ," Harry said scathingly. Hermione's eyebrows rose.

"Harry doesn't do galas," Hermione huffed. "He didn't even come to the Yule Ball when he was a Champion. McGonagall lost the plot," she said, laughing.

"Well, he's doing this one," Sirius said sternly, brooking no room for argument.

"Yeah, okay, well I was going to ask Harry to come with me to the new bookshop in Langington Alley to pick up a book for his birthday but I can see that's not going to happen," Hermione said, frowning.

"I want to go to the bookshop!" Harry said, jumping up and making a break for the fireplace. Hermione's head disappeared as she reared back in surprise, scared Harry would trample her.

Sirius caught the scuff of Harry's collar before he could get three steps away from the kitchen table. "You're coming to the fucking ball, damnit," he growled. "I'm _not_ going alone!"

"Is that what this is about?" Harry asked, aghast. "You don't want to go _alone_?"

“Well, Remus is out of town,” Sirius bit back defensively.

“I wonder why,” Harry deadpanned.

"You’re coming with me, Potter, whether you try to wish your pretty little head out of it or not," Sirius answered, eyes alight with demonic determination.

Harry despaired.

Perhaps Harry had not made himself clear enough. Harry hates balls, functions, gatherings, soireés, parties, galas, and any event that required him to be around a large amount of people (which was specifically classified as more than Hermione, Remus and Sirius, those people exactly – and sometimes even all three could be intolerable). And that didn't even include the socialising. Dear god, the _socialising._

There was guaranteed to be food, music, dancing, jolliness, and worst of all (and dreaded of all) – small talk.

Harry nearly vomited.

* * *

"Heir Black!" A woman tittered, extending her hand.

Sirius grinned dashingly, bowing and taking the woman's tiny appendage. The frail hand was kissed delicately and two bright spots of blush bloomed on the woman's cheeks. The entire scene was so completely practiced and fake that Harry nearly laughed as the woman swooned. As if reading Harry's thoughts, Sirius' eyes flashed and the man shot Harry a piercing look out of the corner of his eye. Harry bit his lip and busied himself with looking at the heavy, lavish candle chandeliers hanging over the ballroom floor. Luckily for Harry, there were dozens of them.

There was something very particularly annoying about that night. Harry knew word of his ability to do Strange Things had gotten around (especially since the Taming of the Dragon in fourth year, as referred to by _The Prophet_ ) and Harry was under no illusions that people wouldn't proposition him to their side. Political unease, _revolution_ , now loomed dangerously over Britain, the shadow of the beast casting shade on muggle and wizarding alike.

For some reason, that thought made Harry a little happier. Beasts shouldn't entertain Harry, but Harry was entertained by a lot of things he probably shouldn't be.

A tittering couple drew Harry’s attentions and he turned to a familiar voice, recollection ringing in the back of his mind.

“Mollie,” Harry stated, blinking in surprise. Mollie and Daphne Greengrass stood not a metre away, the two blonde girls sipping crystal coupe glasses of champagne. It appeared Daphne had consumed a bit more than her older cousin, or at least had less experience with the sparkling beverage, as she turned to Harry and blushed immediately.

“Harry, darling,” Mollie gasped. She quickly stepped to Harry’s side and pressed a soft, pale palm to his face. “My you have grown. Remember when you used to be so small and cute? I see you have certainly grown into your features, my dear,” Mollie murmured softly, gently twisting Harry’s face this way and that with a thumb on his chin.

Harry watched Mollie through lidded eyes as he was somewhat manhandled. “And ever the beauty, Mollie,” Harry answered, feeling like that was something Sirius would approve of. Mollie, as most women did with Sirius’ one-liners, blushed very lightly and a soft smile adorned her lips.

“Hello, Harry,” Daphne broke through the conversation, blue eyes staring at Mollie with sudden flintiness despite addressing the young man.

Mollie glanced at her second cousin and giggled lightly, releasing Harry’s face and making a point of holding it away from Harry’s being, as if making a point to Daphne. Harry wondered what it was.

“Hello, Daphne,” Harry parroted, feeling a little exasperated at the feeling of being out of his depth. For the most part, the secret motivations of women eluded Harry.

“I see you’ve come to debut,” Mollie continued airily, as if the interlude had not occurred. “Recently graduated Hogwarts, eighteen yesterday, impressive magic abilities making even the most hardened politician’s mouth water at the opportunity to take you under their wing. And no declared major or profession, but perhaps ready to join the Wizegamont to inherit both the Potter and Black family seat. And, of course, absolutely stunning. Obviously a _catch_ ,” Mollie drawled, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Thank you,” Harry answered, unsure as to what Mollie was up to. Harry had forgotten how Mollie seemed to take the phrase “Sneaky Slytherin” to another level.

“I must say, though, no paramours to speak of. Except for that bushy-haired brunette the papers do enjoy gossiping over, as if that were even an option. Oh,” Mollie gasped, raising a hand slightly to catch another person’s attention. “Damon, darling! Look who I found hiding in the corner!”

Mollie then rounded on Harry as a tall, dark haired man began approaching the trio, a handsome face dusted with a short, groomed beard and dark eyes glinting. Harry felt the palms of his hands begin to sweat.

“Harry, my dear, surely you recall Damon Carrow?” She pressed, blinking perhaps a little too innocently.

Damon joined their circle and stared at Harry for a moment before a small smirk began to spread across his lips. Harry watched it if only to avoid the taller man’s eyes, feeling an uncomfortable sinking in his chest.

“Harry,” Damon hummed, lips curling around Harry’s name softly. “What a surprise. I haven’t seen you around one of these little get togethers before.”

“Pleasure,” Harry answered, eyes flickering to Mollie. _Classic Mollie_ , Harry sighed to himself, realising that perhaps he’d been set up.

“Oh, Harry, I’m just _so pleased_ you’ve decided to come –” Mollie began again in that ostentatious pureblood tone that spoke of nothing but trouble before she cut off abruptly when a large hand wrapped around Harry’s neck.

Electric sparks raced through Harry’s body at the touch, as if lightening had struck his flesh. Harry knew who was holding him, who could cause this nearly painful awareness with just a touch. Harry smiled secretly to himself, eyes going unfocused as he gazed ahead, unseeing.

"Hello, little watcher," a voice crooned in Harry ear, deep and sultry and sending painful shocks down Harry's spine.

Harry tilted his head to the side, a hair's breadth away from the face of Voldemort, brown eyes flashing red. Voldemort pressed against his side, cold hand in the curve of Harry’s spine and hairline, face lowered close to Harry’s. Harry watched the lips hovering by his nose out of the corner of his eye, a coil of heat twisted dangerously in Harry's stomach as he attempted a brittle mockery of a smile.

"Hello, Vol –" the hand on his neck tightening dangerously "Advisor Riddle," Harry ended politely, smiling a little more genuinely now. How easy it was to get under the man's skin in public. Harry felt a little mischievous; he wondered how far he could go. And who Harry could guess would die tonight. Considering his odds, Harry had a two in three chance.

Mollie, Daphne and Damon evaporated so quickly that Harry might have not noticed their disappearance if it weren’t for Daphne’s surprised squeak as she was dragged away.

"Riddle," Sirius stated abruptly from a few feet away, dropping the woman on his arm so quickly that she stumbled. "What are you doing here?" Sirius was mad. Harry could almost hear the man growling.

"Ah, The Mutt. I don't believe we've officially met before," Voldemort answered in a faultlessly polite tone, extending his free right hand with his left still anchored heavily around the nape of Harry’s neck. Harry felt a well of laughter bubble in his chest. How Voldemort made these events bearable, Harry didn't know; he immediately decided on bringing the man to every function possible from now on.

Sirius looked as if he rather wouldn't take the man's hand but the pressure of the onlookers weighed the dog-man down. Sirius shook Voldemort's hand a little too roughly, but Harry supposed that Voldemort could handle it. Voldemort seemed to enjoy Too Rough.

"Take your hands off my son," Sirius gritted through bared teeth, an imitation of a smile.

"Godson, isn't it?" Voldemort answered back flawlessly, hands still shaking. "Such a shame about his parents; one wouldn't ever wish to need a godfather, but such are the times we live in."

Harry didn't like that. He stepped forward, out of Voldemort's claws, and spun around.

"Sirius, will you teach me how to dance?" Harry asked cheerfully. "I've never learnt. I was supposed to in Fourth Year, but I hid in a closet. That counts as a secret, by the way."

Sirius smiled, besotted. "Of course, Harry," he answered warmly, Voldemort long forgotten. Harry laughed as he allowed himself to be swept onto the dance floor; there was much swearing and toe crushing.

Harry suddenly felt a weightless happiness take over him as he stumbled through the steps with his godfather. He was surrounded by people he couldn’t stand in a place he did not want to be, yet here both Voldemort and Sirius existed and the two had even met without killing one another. It felt like a one-in-a-million chance that the meeting hadn’t ended in blood or flames. _Though_ , Harry mused, _the night is still young._

The song ended softly and then Harry was being pulled out of Sirius’ hands and dragged across the ballroom floor, his godfather suddenly lost amongst the couples dispersing from the end of the dance.

"What has you so tickled? I could feel your horrible pleasure from across the room," Voldemort whispered in his ear, a hand firmly griped around Harry's bicep. Walking past doors and people and suddenly outside, alone, the cool air calming. From the balcony of the large estate, Harry watched the fairy lights floating around Voldemort cast soft shadows over his strong brow and high cheekbones. Red eyes bled over brown, irises catlike slits awash in maroon.

Harry studied Voldemort for a moment, his mind clearer than it had been in… Well, forever. _I could feel your horrible pleasure from across the room._

"I'm your horcrux," Harry whispered softly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could process them. _Oh my,_ Harry thought to himself in disbelief, a strange coil of heat unravelling in his chest.

Voldemort looked trapped, then. Harry felt a light _oomph_ pushed out of his chest as he was slammed against a stone wall with fierce strength, Voldemort suddenly close and caging, hands on either side of Harry’s face. Harry looked up at the creature wearing a man’s skin, at the sharp definition of his jaw and the disorienting shade of his eyes. Thighs pressed against the outside of Harry’s hips, the outside air suddenly much warmer than before.

Harry calmed his breathing as Voldemort pressed his face close into Harry’s personal space and wondered what Voldemort was doing, what he wanted to do. Well, other than boxing in Harry, looking ready to fight the green-eyed boy to death.

"The prophecy has been fulfilled," Harry continued, words tumbling out of his mouth, still watching that mouth and those sharp teeth and the snarl quirking one side of a full lip. "It's just me, just you, and a horcrux. Well, and the others. But I don’t think I mind sharing.”

Voldemort seemed at a loss for words then, the hands digging into the stone beside Harry’s head relaxing as one hand moved to cup his face and another moving to tightly grip Harry’s hip.

"My little wildcard,” Voldemort then said, frowning. "Why don't you mind?" Voldemort looked mad that Harry wasn't upset, ready to battle with no fight. Harry wondered if this was another Stone issue all over again. Voldemort didn't handle when things went well.

“Why not?" Harry asked, lips quirking mischievously.

Voldemort’s chest rumbled then, a soft huff of a laugh that crystallised in the air and gently brushed Harry’s nose. Harry shuddered, closing his eyes as Voldemort leaned even closer. The tall frame of the man pressed against Harry, a nose dipping and running against cold flesh from the base of Harry’s neck to his ear, a hot mouth hovering over the side of Harry’s face. _If this is an intimidation tactic,_ Harry thought to himself dazedly, _it definitely works._

Harry felt himself grow light headed, chest tightening at the touch. Harry felt his fingers sink into the lapels of Voldemort’s dress robes, anchoring himself to the fabric as another bolt of heat shot through his stomach, churning tension resting dangerously low in his stomach once more. But – it wasn’t from fear, Harry realised. In fact, Harry didn't mind the touch. It was – nice.

"Why not, indeed?" Voldemort crooned, a hand tilting Harry’s jaw towards a smirking mouth and so close that Harry could feel the man’s lips brush against his as he spoke, sending sparks of sharp awareness through Harry’s mind. Harry deeply inhaled the scent of ash and magic, death and destruction. “And you are my horcrux. _My_ horcrux, my little meduza,” Voldemort whispered darkly.

“Were you jealous?” Harry asked, surprised by the emphasis but still not daring to open his eyes. “Damon-”

“My name,” Voldemort cut Harry off with a harsh demand, the fingers on Harry’s chin and hip tightening and Voldemort pushed impossibly closer, a knee now digging between Harry’s thighs.

Harry slowly opened his eyes, staring through his eyelashes at the monster. He felt his stomach drop completely at the hard glint in Voldemort’s gaze, pupils blown out and nostrils flaring minutely.

“Tom or Voldemort?” Harry asked innocently, at last ready for the aftermath of teasing a Dark Lord.

Harry was rewarded with a punishing kiss, the hand on his chin delving into his hair and yanking his head back, allowing Voldemort to deepen the kiss and run a tongue against the top of Harry’s mouth. Voldemort pulled away in an instant, nipping Harry’s lips sharply as he retreated.

“Say only my name, Harry,” Voldemort commanded, voice velveteen and dark and _treacherous_. “And I’ll reward you for eternity.”

Harry shivered, mind reeling from the kiss. “Did you miss me?” Harry asked instead of whispering Voldemort’s name again, not wishing to fall into the honey trap that Voldemort was carefully laying out for him. _Kisses for worship may be a fair trade_ , Harry mused before he cut the mutinous thoughts off.

Voldemort chuckled, the deep rumble rattling Harry’s chest. “Always impudent. Of course I missed you, my watcher. Whatever else did I have to entertain myself with while you ignored me?” At this, the hand in Harry’s hair tightened and the young man sighed softly, tilting his head back to relieve some of the pressure and baring his throat further to Voldemort.

“Remus says treasures are more desirable when they’ve been fought for,” Harry answered with a hint of tease as he stared up into the starry night sky, ignoring the small break in his breath when teeth scraped over his adam’s apple.

“And do you think I won’t chase a reward?” Voldemort teased, sharper than a blade. “Tell me, sweetheart. What is it you want from me?”

Sharp teeth continued nipping at Harry’s exposed neck as he struggled to think clearly. _‘I want –’_ Harry began before he stopped suddenly, realising the words tumbling out of his mouth weren’t in English.

‘ _What do you want?’_ Voldemort encouraged against the column of Harry’s mouth, the hand on his hip sliding around and resting on the curve of Harry’s arse between the stone wall, pulling Harry closer into the man’s claws. Harry supressed a keening noise at the hissed syllables against his neck, feeling himself begin to dangerously lose control.

 _What do I want?_ Harry asked himself, considering the question for a moment.

‘ _Voldemort_ ,’ Harry answered aloud without thinking, mouth curling around the Parseltongue hiss. In the blink of an eye, hands were under Harry’s thighs and hoisting him into the air. Harry gasped and gripped the dress robes tighter, legs instinctively wrapping around the taller man’s hips and thighs gripping around toned muscle. Harry felt a small noise pushed out of his lungs as he was slammed back against the stone wall, hands cupping his arse, and a tongue delving into his mouth.

The kiss felt like both an instant and a lifetime, bringing out helpless keens of want from Harry’s lips and he arched violently into Voldemort’s frame, fingers lacing behind Voldemort’s neck and _pulling_ and meeting the man halfway with ferocity. Voldemort canted his hips back into Harry’s push and Harry felt his eyes roll back into his head at the hard friction against his own arousal, wrapping his arms tighter around Voldemort’s neck as he felt himself roughly manhandled.

“ _Harry_ ,” a voice broke through the haze of Harry’s mind, scathing and fearful.

Harry hummed against the mouth on his in brief acknowledgement of being spoken to but a tongue pressing against the seam of his lips flickered and Harry sunk back into the mindless, scorching heat of the body pressing into his, thighs flexing as he hitched himself against that solid frame and moaning at the rewarding friction.

“ _Harry James Potter_ ,” the voice continued. “Let go of Voldemort _now_.”

The mouth against Harry’s broke into a smug grin and began to slowly pull back, but Harry ignored the voice once more and focused on chasing Voldemort’s lips, Harry’s teeth catching a bruised bottom lip and eyes cracking open to blurrily stare at Voldemort in irritation for his retreat. Voldemort watched Harry through lidded eyes, nearly invisible crows feet around those red eyes crinkling in sly amusement.

Harry let go of the lip between his teeth and dropped his head against Voldemort’s shoulder, trembling from the kiss and still wrapped rather tightly around Voldemort. The man in question ran his nails gently along the underside of Harry’s thighs, turning his head to address Sirius despite continuing to push Harry into the stone wall to brace the younger man and refusing to let him down.

“Apologies, Mutt,” Voldemort laughed darkly, voice roughed from the kiss and wrecking havoc on Harry’s mental state. “But we’re having a moment. Run along. I’m sure there are plenty of men and women in there who would love to play fetch with an Heir.”

Harry sighed, realising that perhaps he had jinxed this meeting by celebrating too early. He pressed a soft kiss to the tense column of Voldemort’s neck, who was staring at Sirius’ sparking wand in his face with bemusement, and began to unhook his ankles from around the man. Voldemort didn’t glance back down at Harry, but he pressed sharp nails into Harry’s hips to discourage the movement. Harry ignored the warning and allowed himself to gently touch down the ground, arms still wrapped tightly around Voldemort’s neck and slightly bowing the man’s head.

Harry realised with a start that Voldemort was shielding him, strong forearms wrapping around his back and cheek placed protectively against Harry’s forehead as the taller man continued watching Sirius. It caused an odd jump in his chest at the thought and he pressed another soft kiss to the man’s strong jaw. _Possessive much,_ Harry thought to himself, unsure if he was unimpressed or pleased by the posturing.

“Harry,” Sirius repeated firmly.

Harry turned his head to look at his godfather at last and blinked at the ashen, furious expression on the man’s face.

“Hi,” Harry offered weakly, trying to pretend he didn’t notice a stray hand rounding possessively over his arse. Sirius did not.

“We’re going home.” Sirius stated, the mad glint in his eye daring Harry to challenge him and tone brooking no room for argument.

Harry sighed deeply before nodding slightly. He turned to look up at Voldemort’s face, the monster’s expression gone slack and emotionless during the conversation between godson and godfather.

“See you tonight?” Harry asked quietly against the man’s lips. The bruised lips quirked briefly into a smirk before pecking Harry’s once more and then Voldemort was gone, pulling away and breezing past Sirius with unaffected airs.

“You bloody well will _not_ ,” Sirius roared as his face suddenly flushed magenta, the blood returning to his cheeks with a vengeance as he looked caught between chasing after Voldemort or dragging his godson away.  

Harry sighed once more and leant against the stone wall, feeling the coolness of the summery night air calm his nerves.

 _I’m in so much trouble_ , Harry thought to himself wondrously, laughingly, as he swiped an absentminded tongue over his bottom lip, his nose still tingling from the residual scent of ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Clears throat_ , well then. Nothing weirder than your dad finding you pashing your kinda-sorta-maybe-boyfriend (slash immortal Dark Lord and prime minister candidate) at a fancy party.
> 
> Ha, otherwise I hope you enjoyed :D Let me know what you think!


	12. A crazy little thing called love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crazy for love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terribly sorry for the 4-plus month chapter break. It has been a very long half-year for me, but either way I did commit to this story so I'm so sorry for the delay to my darling readers and followers. Thank you so much for your encouragement and following. There's nothing more wonderful than your reviews! I promise I read them, even if I don't respond, and they keep me fed in my moments of solitude. I hope you enjoy <3

Understandably, Sirius was Not Happy.

As soon as the pair floo’d into Grimmauld Place’s kitchen from the gala, the man whirled on Harry with a gleam of madness in his eye.

“ _Him?”_ Sirius hissed. “Does it really have to be _him_?” The man seethed.

“I guess,” Harry answered fairly easily.

“But – that – it’s – _him?_ ” Sirius stressed once more, furious. A red blush of rage flushed the man’s neck and he paced furiously, always the Grim.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed as he sat down heavily onto a creaking wooden chair, wondering if Sirius was about to have a heart attack. That wouldn’t be pleasant.

“ _Harry_ ,” Sirius then said, stopping, eyes full of insanity and rage and something Harry couldn’t quite decipher. “He killed Lily and James, _your parents_. He’s killed _so many people_. Oh Godric, _Malfoy’s head,_ ” Sirius said, hands coming up to grip his skull. The words rang in Harry’s head.

“Yes,” Harry said again. He knew.

“But – you – I just,” Sirius babbled then, waffling in the face of Harry’s frankness. “Get out!” Sirius then roared, voice shaking in hatred as he threw a hand towards the door.

“Okay,” Harry said, realising that this should have been expected. It wasn’t, but it should have been. Something inside his chest shattered. Harry stood to leave.

“No, wait,” Sirius then said, wringing his wrists, snapping from rage to fear in a heartbeat. “Don’t go – just listen to me, please,” he pleaded.

Harry sat back down.

“I can’t disown you,” Sirius whispered in sudden contrast to his catastrophic rage, collapsing into a wooden chair on the other side of the kitchen table as if all fight had left him. “Not how my parents did. Not how my mother did. I… It just feels like the opposite. Me kicking you out for something dark when my parents kicked me out for something light.”

Harry doesn’t know why Sirius is telling him this.

He _knows_.

“Why, Harry?” Sirius asked then, eyes welling with tears and words exposing the raw breaking of his heart.

Harry looked at his godfather, then – or father, was it now? – and sighed.

 _“I don’t know,”_ Harry answered, wishing he did.

* * *

“What’s wrong?” Voldemort asked, face pinched in irritation. Well, as pinched as the emotionless mask could be. “I can feel your despair. Stop it.”

Harry watched the man from across Doctor Welsh’s desk. He didn’t speak.

“You’re acting like a child,” Voldemort hissed, sharp nails digging into mahogany and splintering the hard wood, face alight with contempt. “You’re two minutes away from summoning green slime. It’s revolting.”

Harry didn’t respond other than to tilt his head and wallow in the hollowness eating at his chest.

“Potter,” Voldemort then said Very Seriously, eyes brighter than smelting steel. “If you don’t stop this tantrum, I will kill you. Horcrux or not.”

Harry knew that his anguish was transmitting to Voldemort. Voldemort did not do well with emotions. Harry felt a lot of them, but they were often supressed to the point they exploded in a dramatic array of colours at random intervals. This was one of those times.

“Sirius is mad at me,” Harry said into the dark room.

“I’ll kill him too, then,” Voldemort sneered back. It was said in cruelty but Harry knew the man wasn’t joking. Voldemort doesn’t jest when it comes to death.

“No, thank you,” Harry answered distantly. “This is me. All me.”

“What has your filthy mutt done now?” The man scowled, not completely tamed but not nearly as enraged as he was a moment ago, as if a protective flame had burnt itself out at Harry’s appeasing words. Harry hid a smile at the reaction.

Voldemort was a strange concoction of human and monster. It shouldn’t charm Harry, but it was similar to his take on beasts.

“Nothing unexpected,” Harry answered, leaning into the hard chair and tipping it perilously onto its back two feet as he rocked, feet braced against the desk. “What have you been doing for the last year?” He asked lightly, interested in leading the conversation away from his godfather’s imminent death. Sure, Harry knew Sirius would die one day. But not Right Now would be nice.  

Voldemort looked irritated by the change of conversation. To be honest, Harry supposed it was very difficult to understand Voldemort at all. But Harry watched and watched until he could see even the barest of twitch in the man’s stoic expression and deduced from there. Voldemort was almost easier to read than his First Year potion’s text.

“Work,” Voldemort drawled darkly, fingers tattering that stressful tempo on the wood of the desk. “Always work.”

“You should take a week off. Playing every now and then does everyone a bit of good,” Harry stated suddenly as he smiled mischievously, leaning forward sharply and chair clattering onto all four feet as he noticed the stress lines in Voldemort’s jaw. The minute dip of the man’s brow. The stronger than normal twist of his lips.

Voldemort’s eyes glittered dangerously as one of his eyebrows twitched. Harry smiled even wider. It was taking more and more to really piss the monster off but, when Harry managed it, he revelled in the experience. Perhaps Voldemort was becoming desensitised to Harry’s madness. Perhaps Harry just needed to redouble his efforts.

* * *

Harry watches Voldemort from across the entrance chamber to the Ministry of Magic, an immense welcoming hall featuring a large statue of magical creatures, wizards and muggles. It is a magnificent thing. Harry knows that Voldemort will replace it within his first year of office (for he has won the Minister of Magic elections). Voldemort is temperamental like that.

Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, is giving his first speech in the echoing atrium of the Ministry of Magic, expanded to hold over a thousand souls, an amphitheatre lovingly echoing words like _equality_ and _abolishment_ and _truth_. Voldemort preaches trigger phrases Harry knows people will adore; it’s a speech that incites a sense of freedom, of success in voting in a champion, a golden falsehood spun by an idealised revolutionary. It’s a work of art, that speech, and Harry knows it will go down in the libraries of the future as true history. It’s a beautiful, perilous, consumable lie.

Harry has no doubt that Voldemort wrote it himself.

The crowd swoons as Sirius, Remus and Hermione shake in silent rage.

* * *

When Harry returns to Grimmauld Place after the public speech, the house is eerily quiet. It’s always somewhat creepy and silent, but very rarely is Sirius and Remus not here when Harry is. Remus, Sirius and Hermione have remained behind and Harry suspects they’re under instructions from the Order of The Phoenix to perform some kind of mission. They think he doesn’t know, but Harry does; to be honest, he merely doesn’t care enough to comment on it.

Harry met Kreacher, the Black house elf, back at the end of third year when he moved into № 12 Grimmauld Place. Kreacher is an odd creature, full of anger and angst and misguided racist ideologies. Sirius and Kreacher obviously don’t get along terribly well, but Remus has forced Sirius to stop nagging the beast and Harry simply wished that Kreacher wouldn’t be able to find Sirius even when he wanted to, so the house fell into a somewhat uneasy but overall bearable state of peace.

“Here comes the half-blood traitor,” Kreacher announced wretchedly as Harry shook off his over-robes, hanging them on a coat hook in the entrance hallway.

Harry glanced down the hall to see Kreacher lurking at the top of the stairs of the first landing, glaring down at Harry with glowing, suspicious eyes.

“Hello, Kreacher. How are you today?” Harry enquired not unkindly, knowing that simply ignoring the creature invited more insults while engaging in his nastiness often resulted in all one’s clothing being burnt up (Sirius had actually cried when his leather jacket collection was found to be mostly ashes in the kitchen fireplace).

“Filthy, filthy halfblood,” Kreacher muttered angrily before turning and stomping up the stairs. “Follow the Kreachers,” the angrily little elf instructed as he got further away.

Harry decided to follow the little ancient elf out of sheer curiosity, suddenly wondering what the tiny terror did all day, especially as he very rarely left the house. Harry quietly crept behind the beast, shadowing him quietly. Harry knows that Kreacher probably won’t hurt him; there’s always been an uneasy truce between the two of them. Kreacher calls him names but makes him meals, Harry ignores the insults makes sure Sirius leaves him alone. Their deal has never been spoken aloud, but it’s there all the same.

Kreacher finally makes it to Sirius and Remus’ bedroom landing, walking towards the couple’s bedroom door. Harry feels himself bristle, a little annoyed. If the elf has decided to push his luck and try to enter the room, which Sirius warded against such a thing, Harry would have to get involved. No matter their quiet truce, Harry certainly doesn’t trust Kreacher to not hurt Sirius and Remus.

Instead of entering Sirius’ room, to Harry’s surprise, Kreacher keeps walking until he passes Sirius’ bedroom door and then walks another two meters. At the very end of the dead-end hallway, a door appears on the wall under Kreacher’s quietly spoken password.

The door has clearly been untouched for many years. There are no cobwebs, but the dust at the end of the hallway has long been undisturbed and there are no track marks or signs of wear having occurred in the past decade in the hallway after Sirius’ bedroom door. Harry had assumed that Sirius had the entire floor with the exception of the storage closet on the other side of the landing. But seeing the door appear now, an ancient wooden thing with rusting hinges and a seal on the handle, Harry knows this belongs to Sirius’ long-forgotten baby brother. An _R-_ something. Sirius has never really spoken of it and Harry has never really asked.

Kreacher stared forward at the door and Harry observed Kreacher.

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher whispers, his scratchy, unused voice cracking. Ah, _Regulus._ That’s right.

“Why are you showing this to me now?” Harry asked softly, seeing the slight tremble of Kreacher’s thin shoulders.

“Something very important to Masters Regulus goes missing from my cupboard in Yule,” Kreacher whispered at the doorframe, refusing to turn and look at Harry.

“The locket belonged to Regulus?” Harry pressed, surprised by Kreacher’s words.

“Masters Regulus entrusted the locketsies to Kreacher,” Kreacher bit out, finally throwing a sharp look over his shoulder at Harry. “And Harry Potter be _stealing_ it.”

“I guess you could say Regulus took it first and then I simply picked it up when it called,” Harry shrugged. “I don’t mean to imply he’s a thief, because I don’t know that for sure. It probably wouldn’t be the first time one of those trinkets were entrusted to the Dark Lord’s worshippers.”

Kreacher shuddered. “The Dark Lord did not wants Masters Regulus to have the locket,” he admitted.

“Then how did you come to have it?” Harry asked, mystified as to Kreacher’s sudden openness. Harry had never heard Kreacher speak one word of Regulus Black but, now that he was, it was clear the young heir had meant much to the old elf.

Kreacher reached forward and opened the door to Regulus’ room, the ward allowing it. Harry realised the elf must have been the one to put the protection spells on the room in the first place. It smelt like a cemetery, that ward. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if it were a crypt curse.

Harry followed the house elf into the room and was surprised to note that it appeared as if Regulus Black had only just stepped out, for it was a snapshot of a time long gone. There were neatly piled books on a slightly messy desk, a quill still in an inkwell and stained black by the long-dried substance. The large four-poster bed was made slightly sloppily, an indication that it was handmade rather than by a house elf’s precision magic. A pair of slippers waited next to a large wardrobe and a massive window pane shone bright light into the room, heavy velvet curtains pulled back by large cords. The room was about the size of a small studio flat and Harry could see an entrance to an ensuite, the door ajar and showing a glimpse of rich marble.

It looked as if Regulus had only just left and the room was awaiting patiently for his return, the man not a moment’s notice away from returning. The only evidence that it would never happen was the sheer amount of dust covering everything, coating each surface with time and the light flooding through the window fading each fabric and exposed piece of timber.

It was a shrine, untouched by a Black family member since Regulus’ disappearance and assumed death. It filled Harry with an odd, insurmountable amount of sadness.

“Mistress Black never be finding the bodies,” Kreacher said into the room, the high ceilings providing a slight echo.

“What happened to Regulus, Kreacher?” Harry asked, feeling like it was time.

The story Kreacher told was horrific. Dead bodies possessed back to life, purifying flame burning them up. Kreacher sacrificed to lay in a cave for eternity with only Inferi and poison for company. Regulus pressing a locket in Kreacher’s hands, giving himself so that the house elf could live and destroy a tie holding Voldemort to the mortal plane.

Harry sat down on the dusty floor as Kreacher explained with a wavering voice, not minding the dust surely grinding into his robes. Regulus sounded oddly like himself in a way, a boy raised in a horrible household and minding the rules, doing as he was told so that he could pass by mostly sight-unseen. Then deciding at last to act and, for it, destroying himself in the process.

It was a terribly sad story. It made Harry feel suffocated and lonely, transporting him back to a time when he lived in a cupboard and wished only to be invisible.

At last, just when Harry didn’t think he could listen to a second more, Kreacher stopped talking.

“Does Sirius know this?” Harry asked after a long stretch of silence passed.

“The blood traitor never be asking,” Kreacher whispered heartlessly, twisting his hands as he looked down at his hands.

“I think Sirius has a right to know that his brother attempted redemption in the end,” Harry said. Kreacher didn’t scowl nor fight Harry’s opinion; Harry got the impression Kreacher was telling him now to clear Regulus’ name. Kreacher would never be able to open up to Sirius like this, not really, so Harry was the next best thing.

“But let’s leave out the Dark Lord’s influence on the locket,” Harry added, knowing that he couldn’t say Voldemort’s name without eliciting a horrible response from the demented elf.

“What does the halfblood wish to do with the locketsies?” Kreacher whispered once more, tone scathing and distrustful, as he shot Harry a filthy glare.

“I’m not sure yet,” Harry answered truthfully. “I probably won’t destroy it. But I promise you I’ll honour Regulus’ sacrifice.”

It was an ambiguous promise, one that Harry wasn’t sure how to uphold, but it seemed to relieve Kreacher all the same.

* * *

Hermione decided to go rouge and wrote a rather scathing opinion editorial about the Minister of Magic for _The Daily Prophet_. She doesn’t dare mention Tom Riddle’s true identity, for she knows that people will undoubtfully laugh in her face in dismissive scepticism if she does, but she points out an entire host of reasonable things that will sway people’s opinions. Now that Riddle is Prime Minister of Magic, the papers consider him free game to tear down. He’d paid good gold for them to be on his side during the elections, but now they’re savage.

Hermione’s op-ed ponders Riddle’s mysterious disappearance from the public eye for a few decades, his sudden re-emergence and immediate rise to power under Fudge’s watchful eye. Hermione muses Riddle’s ambitions, his campaign promises, his failure to keep his word from time to time. She leads the reader along a path to distrust. It’s powerful and persuasive, Hermione’s article.

Harry knows immediately that Riddle will kill her. He drops the paper on the kitchen table of Manor Black and spins on his heel, disapparating on the spot.

* * *

“Stop,” Harry states, having appeared in Hermione’s living room with a sharp _crack!_ and finding Voldemort and Hermione pointing their wands at one another, tension crackling in the air.

“No, go ahead,” Hermione goads, eyes wild. “Kill me! See what happens when the _Minister of Magic_ silences free speech and murders investigative journalists!”

Voldemort has dropped his politician shell. He looks like the fourth horseman, hellfire eyes sparking and expression tighter than a drawn bow.

“Investigative journalism?” Voldemort repeats calmly, voice deep and treacherous. “Hardly. More like the shrilling of a mudblood shrew.”

Hermione throws the first spell. Voldemort counters it before she’s even finished her breath, sharper and faster than human.

Harry wished immediately that they would just _Stop_ , reaching out and calling their wands towards his outstretched hands.

To Harry’s amazement, time listened to his wordless command and he found himself staring at a still frame his two people, his pseudo sister and his – his… Well, his Voldemort. Voldemort’s frozen form was contorted into the beginnings of a dueller’s crouch, lithe fingers spread out and the sharp crackle of black magic spreading from his palms dangerously. Hermione’s narrowed eyes glared at Voldemort, hate twisting her features into something dark and ugly, as she too bore the beginning position of a dueller.

“That’s new,” Harry stated as he observed time coming to a complete standstill, looking back and forth between Hermione and Voldemort, a vine wand in his right hand and an elderwood in his left.

“I must admit that was me,” an ethereal voice answered, deep, echoing and ageless.

Harry spun slowly on his heel, turning to face the being behind himself. Harry came face to face with a young woman, perhaps twenty or twenty-five years old. She was pale, paler than natural, with long ashen hair and pupils white instead of black in a sea of pearl irises. Despite the oddness of the situation, Harry didn’t feel intimidated or scared. Instead, he felt rather calm. She appraised Harry slowly, hopping to sit on Hermione’s overflowing desk daintily and kicking bare feet back and forth through the air.

“Normally my presence causes great anxiety,” the creature told him, the tenor of her voice deeper than a girl’s and yet suiting in its ominousness. She rather looked similar to Luna, Harry noted, if Luna had a terrifying, washed-out inhuman older sister.

“I have always thought it silly to start off a situation scared just because I don’t know what’s happening,” Harry replied, placing the two wands down at his feet. “I’m sure Hermione’s just put the kettle on, seeing as she always has a kettle boiling at all times, the tea addict. Could I tempt you with a cup?” Harry enquired politely.

“A cup of tea?” The woman repeated, surprised. “How delightful. I’ve never had tea. I suppose one cup wouldn’t hurt.”

“Milk and sugar?” Harry prompted.

“Whatever for?” The woman asked.

“The tea,” Harry answered.

“How bizarre. Go ahead,” she laughed, waving a hand.

Harry confirmed his suspicions in Hermione’s tiny kitchen when he found a kettle mid-scream on the stove top, the steam frozen as it shot into the air. Thankfully, Harry found a ready pot of tea sitting on the counter as he wasn’t sure if a tea bag would brew in hot water in this timeless pocket he found himself in. It seemed that sugar and milk could be stirred into the warm liquid, though, so clearly things worked differently in this dimension when pulled through time. Harry was curious to experiment as to what he could get away with, but it seemed awfully rude when he had someone waiting on a cup.

Harry returned to the lounge room, sidestepping a frozen Voldemort and Hermione, and waved the creature to sit down on a large settee by a mid-spitting fire as he settled himself into a couch, placing the cups of tea on a coffee table. The woman amenably followed and sat, rearranging a threadbare cotton dress as she settled.

“This is extraordinary,” the woman told him after the first sip of tea.

“It seems to be a popular beverage. I’ve only met a few people who don’t like it,” Harry told her.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I am?” The woman asked.

“It seems a bit rude asking after your species without first asking your name. May I?” Harry countered politely.

“My name?” The woman repeated then, looking stumped. “I’m sure I had one a while ago, you see. But it’s been ever so long since I’ve had to think on it.”

“What would you like to be called, then?” Harry asked, sipping on his tea.

“Lily,” the woman stated suddenly.

Harry’s eyes flickered up towards the woman. “That’s an awfully familiar name,” he said slowly.

“It’s a good name. One that will conjure up good thoughts from you, I’d hope,” the woman said, smiling.

“Taking my mother’s dead name to endear me to you does sound like firm logic, but I would prefer if we didn’t. If we’re on a flower theme, how does Rose sound?” Harry suggested.

“What a lovely name. I agree; call me Rose. Floral names are all the rage this season, you see. Why, I’ve met a Daisy and a Petunia only just this week,” Rose confided, white eyes sparkling mischievously.

For some reason, Harry felt himself smile into his teacup.

“Now that we have my name sorted, I think we’re onto species. I’m not sure if I’m a species per say, but I am a thing. Most people call me Death,” Rose then said.

Harry perked up at that. “Death? Are you the embodiment of death itself?” Harry asked, realising that he wasn’t nearly as surprised as he thought he’d be.

“Well, as much as an experience or state of being could be embodied,” Rose agreed readily. “I take this shape often, as the crying and the screaming caused by my other forms is all rather droll. People find a pretty young girl to be assuaging. Much easier to get them to follow me.”

“Am I dead?” Harry asked, not really stressed if he were. After all, it seemed that there was more happening on the other side of life’s veil than just an eternal slumber and he found himself curious to find out more.

Rose laughed, that oddly deep voice rumbling through the few feet of space between Harry and Death.

“Oh no, you’re not dead, my love,” Rose replied, her eyes crinkling in affection. “You’ve found a way to meet me, though, without dying. And, because of that, you can find a way to hide from me.”

“But why would I want to do that?” Harry pressed, confused.

“Don’t you fear death, Harry?” Rose asked, appraising him with a weighted look, as if his answer would define their relationship.

“Not particularly, no,” Harry answered after a long moment of thought, knowing it wouldn’t become him to be flippant now. “I would much prefer to be alive right now, but that’s mostly because I have things I want to do. But I suppose it’s not really up to me, so I’ll fight to stay alive but be understanding when the time comes.”

“You are a very curious child indeed,” Rose murmured. “I’ve heard many a brave word from humans in the face of death and yet very few mean it as you do. I think I shall like our arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” Harry echoed.

“Why, you’re the Master of Death!” Rose stated suddenly, throwing her hands into the air and flourishing them as if announcing a Great Thing. It was all very odd, with her chirpy expression and deep voice and human impression of a television announcer declaring a winner.

“I don’t want to be your master,” Harry blurted out, placing his cup down on the coffee table a little too harshly. “That sounds terrible.”

Rose lowered her hands and laced them in her lap, gaze sharp but a small smile played at the corners of her lips. When she did not speak, Harry continued.

“I think I would much rather like a friend. If you wouldn’t mind, we could meet for tea each week?” Harry offered.

“I think I would like that very much,” Rose answered softly, the shadow across her face fading. “This tea really is very enjoyable. But, alas, I have much to do so I must cut this meeting short. I’ll come by around your place same time next week. Ah, before I forget, be a doll and don’t give your boyfriend back that wand, darling. It is much too strong for a creature such as himself.”

“His wand?” Harry repeated, surprised, eyes glancing to the oddly shaped wand resting on the lounge floor. It had felt equally terrible and magnificent in his hand, rather alike the ring weighing against his chest and the weight of his cloak over his shoulders.

“Elder wood,” Rose voice sounded right in his ear and Harry jumped minutely, jerking his face back and flinching at the sight of Rose in his lap. She weighed quite literally nothing despite sitting on him, only the feeling of a cool touch pressing into his skin indicating she was resting her hands on the column of Harry’s neck.

“It’s a powerful wood,” Rose whispered, cool breath fanning Harry’s face. “Your language does not take the word from _old_ but rather from _æld,_ or fire. Humans used hollowed elder wood branches to fan forges and fire. And that is what that wand is. A bellow of fire and destruction. It suits you well, my love, for you are a balancer. In your boyfriend’s hands, it is a weapon of ruin. In yours, an equalising chaos. You will serve it well.”

Rose’s hand flicked up into the air and caught the piece of wood suddenly flung through the air. She pressed the knotted wand into Harry’s hand, white pupils flickering up to his. Harry nodded and, with that, she disappeared.

Time snapped right back into action as if it hadn’t stopped and Harry breathed deeply, closing his eyes and committing the last five minutes to memory. While he certainly couldn’t imagine ever not remembering that first meeting, he didn’t want to forget a single second of it.

There was a bit of noise and nonsense in the background as Harry meditated. Warm hands slipped around the sides of Harry’s neck and he slowly opened his eyes, expecting Hermione judging by the temperature of the palms. Harry found himself settling despite the unexpected sight of Voldemort kneeling before Harry’s cross-legged position on the couch, hands covering exactly where Rose had touched him not moments ago and maroon eyes staring deep into Harry’s own. Perhaps Rose’s hands were so cold, they had left marks that made even Voldemort feel warm in comparison.

“ _And I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see. And I saw, and behold a white horse, and that he sat on him a bow; and a crown given unto him, and he went forth conquering, and to conquer_ ,” Voldemort whispered, tone crisp as he quoted something Harry didn’t recognise, his deep voice sounding practically mundane after the ethereal tenor of Death. “What have you done?”

“What?” Harry murmured, mind still leagues away.

“You disarmed me,” Voldemort answered curiously, as if uncomprehending, smelting eyes boring deep into Harry’s.

“It’s a nice wand. I think I’m going to keep it,” Harry replied, finally focusing on Voldemort.

“Fine,” Voldemort sighed, releasing Harry and raising back to his full height. He made a show of pressing out the wrinkles in his robes while pointedly ignoring Hermione. “Hold onto it for me for now. When I want it back, I’ll take it from you.”

“You can try,” Harry muttered to himself. Harry stood and stretched, feeling relaxed now that it appeared the situation between Hermione and Voldemort had been diffused (for the time being).

“What was that?” Voldemort asked, glancing down with an arched brow.

“Nothing,” Harry quipped, eyes wide and eyebrows drawn together in faux innocence.

“A stone and a wand. Well, I suppose it’s not like you have the cloak,” Voldemort said, one shoulder raising in an elegant shrug. “Then we would really be in trouble.”

“Like an invisibility cloak?” Harry clarified, looking up at Voldemort and recalling that his own cloak held a similar feeling to the ring and the wand. Harry realises that he’s never told Voldemort about the family heirloom.

“Precisely. When an invisibility cloak too good to be manmade finds its way to you, let me know,” Voldemort answered. He then turned sharply on his heel and disapparated with a vicious _crack!_

“I have no idea how you two keep apparating in and out of my house. I have anti-apparation wards set up, you know,” a small voice muttered angrily from the direction of a study desk.

Harry wandered over to find Hermione sulking in her desk chair, clearly still bitter about her fight with Voldemort.

“What do you know about death, Hermione?” Harry asked suddenly. “Are there any wizarding myths or trinkets or anything that would make one the Master of Death?”

Hermione perked up immediately, eyes growing wide and expression clearing. “There’s a few myths in wizarding tradition, like the Beetle and the Bard and stuff. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you can’t tell anyone, not even Sirius or Remus or Voldemort,” Harry asked. Hermione nodded, eyes glittering as she smugly agreed to hearing a secret that Harry wouldn’t tell even Voldemort. “I’m pretty sure I’m the Master of Death. Or, at least Death’s friend. She says I can call her Rose.”

Hermione squawked. “ _Rose?_ ” She leaned around Harry to look where he had come from and then began making odd noises of incomprehension at the sight of two half-drunk cups of tea sitting innocently on her coffee table.

“Yes,” Harry replied dazedly, drifting into thought. “And she likes tea.”

“Death is a woman named Rose who likes tea,” Hermione breathed, sitting back down heavily into her desk chair. “Merlin, Harry! What’s that on your neck?” Hermione then gasped.

Harry frowned and walked to the bathroom, raising his chin to inspect his neck in the mirror. His reflection showed two small, white handprints on either side of his neck under his jaw, fading with time but still cool to the touch. Harry ignored the mirror’s comments _(dearie me, you really should get a haircut, that mop is wild!)_ in favour for inspecting the marks.

The Master of Death _and_ marked by Death; what an exciting day.

An odd chill took over Harry as he felt cold lips rest against his ear, an impossibly deep echoing voice whispering in that same prophetic tone Voldemort had when he recited that odd archaic quote, as if continuing the script,

“ _And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, and I looked and behold: a pale horse. And his name, that sat on him, was Death. And Hell followed with him.”_

Harry smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicised text is a slightly modified quote from the Book of Revelations. I’m personally atheist but, literature-wise, I think the imagery is fascinating and elicits a feeling of an apocalyptic reckoning. I also sincerely recommend you listen to Johnny Cash’s ‘When The Man Comes Around’ based on this scripture; man’s a genius.


End file.
